


Monsters and Angels

by pathologxst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Romance, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathologxst/pseuds/pathologxst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper thought that she had found the perfect date in Richard Matthews. But that was until he abused her. Will Sherlock be able to help his pathologist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hidden Truths

It was close to 6pm and Molly Hooper could barely concentrate on her work at hand. She kept glancing at the lab clock every few minutes. Beside her, Sherlock was engrossed with his microscope, barely noticing the fact that she was nervous.

It wasn't very often that Molly couldn't concentrate on her work. In fact, she was a dedicated pathologist. However, the prospect of her date later with a certain Richard Matthews was making her somewhat jumpy.

It was the first time that Molly was going on a date since forever. She had met the investigative journalist at a café near Bart's and both of them had just hit it off.

What startled her was how very different he was from Sherlock (he wore glasses and was dressed casually), and she was shocked that she managed to feel attracted to someone who was so different from the tall, dark man beside her.

The man that she still secretly loved very much.

But Molly was wise enough to know that he would never reciprocate her romantic feelings towards him. They had grown close after the events of the fall, but that was just what they were. Friends, and nothing more.

"Stop being so jumpy Molly. You're distracting me," Sherlock looked at her with an annoyed expression on his face after she dropped another Petri dish.

"Sorry! It's just that I'm very nervous about my date tonight," she blurted, not quite believing that she was actually talking about her love life with Sherlock Holmes.

"Ugh, dull." Sherlock rolled his eyes. But he noticed her anxiety and softened his expression. "You'll be fine. I don't see why you're so nervous."

He was right. Why was she so nervous? Maybe it was the fact that she rarely had boyfriends (she was embarrassed to admit that she only had 2 her whole life and neither lasted long).

6pm soon arrived and Molly left the lab, waving a good bye to Sherlock who barely raised his head from his beloved microscope.

As she left Bart's, Molly decided that it was going to be a great night and was determined not to let her nerves ruin her evening.

* * *

It turned out that she didn't need to be nervous at all.

Richard was the perfect date – intelligent, sweet and funny. He could carry a conversation easily and there were barely any awkward silences between them (Molly hated those the most). They chatted happily about their hobbies and work life.

She had just begun telling him about Sherlock when she noticed the tight expression on his face. "Is something wrong?" she asked worriedly.

"No, I was just wondering if you see this Sherlock Holmes guy very often."

"Well it depends. Sometimes he's at the lab every day and sometimes he rarely comes over."

"But you like him?" Richard pressed on.

"He's my friend. Of course I like him," she frowned. Molly was starting to wonder what this was all about.

"You shouldn't let him in the lab if he isn't working at the hospital you know."

"Oh it's fine! He works with Scotland Yard and my boss grants him access." Molly smiled. "Well, except when he comes in for his own personal experiments."

Molly suddenly giggled. She remembered a ridiculous experiment which ended with some extremely burnt eyes, a triumphant Sherlock and an exasperated John Watson.

Richard narrowed his eyes. "I don't like the sound of this Sherlock bloke. Seems like he's using you Molly."

"No he's not," she said firmly, slightly annoyed that he would judge Sherlock before meeting him. "I let him into the lab because I want to." She was starting to get defensive, something that always happened whenever someone criticised Sherlock. She knew that he was a much better friend to her after the fall and she trusted him.

A sulky expression settled on Richard's face before he forced himself to smile. "No matter, it was just a thought. Shall we go over to my flat for some coffee?"

Molly agreed immediately. The atmosphere between them had turned icy and she wanted to salvage the date. After all, Richard did seem like a really nice man and she didn't want their evening to be ruined just because of one conversation involving a certain consulting detective.

* * *

Molly sat on Richard's sofa as he prepared the coffee in his kitchen. She took a look around, studying his house.

It was small but well furnished. He had many books and newspapers lying around. His flat was also carpeted with what seemed like a very expensive carpet. He had many exotic looking figures and statues propped up around his living room too, souvenirs from his many travels.

"Here you go," Richard handed her the coffee with a smile. He sat down beside her, studying her as she took small sips from her cup.

"I really enjoyed our date, Molly," he told her with a sweet smile. Molly agreed happily. She did have fun, something that rarely happened in her life.

She was just about to take another sip of coffee when his lips crashed against her, causing her to gasp and spill the hot beverage all over her blouse.

His hands moved roughly against her thighs and her mind went blank with shock. " _No, it's too fast!"_ Her brain screamed at her. She woke up from her stupor and pushed Richard away, leaning against the sofa with her pulse pounding in her ears.

"What are you doing?" he hissed at her.

Molly could hardly believe her ears. What was _she_ doing? That was what she was supposed to be asking him! "It's too fast Richard!" she sputtered, suddenly aware that the hot beverage had actually burnt her skin slightly.

"Why? Don't you like me kissing you? We are on a date, aren't we?" he narrowed his eyes dangerously at her and she saw the tight expression return to his face again.

He actually looked very frightening.

"I er… it's just that I'm not used to being so… intimate so quickly." Her mind worked furiously, trying to find a way out of this situation.

"Really? Because from what you told me about _Sherlock –_ " he spat his name out vehemently, "you two seem pretty _intimate._ "

"But we're just friends!" Molly was struggling not to cry, she was so afraid. She didn't know what had possessed Richard.

"Just friends?!" he roared, his eyes glazing over. "You let him in your lab against the rules and you're just friends?! You're my _girlfriend_ and you talk to me about another man?!"

Molly cowered against the sofa, praying for an escape. "But I'm not your…it's only a – "

She didn't get to finish her sentence.

She was yanked off the sofa and she felt a strong blow to her cheek. Before she could crumble to the floor however, she felt another blow to her right arm and she cried out in agony. The pain was spreading up her arm and tears were dripping off her chin freely. Richard let go of her and she fell onto the floor immediately, clutching her arm to ease the sharp ache.

The flat was completely silent, save for their heavy breathing. Something snapped in Richard and he seemed to realise what he had just done.

"Molly oh my god. I'm so sorry!" he attempted to help her up but Molly flinched from his touch. She was terrified of him; she needed to get out of there fast.

Molly got up as quick as she could, her palm against her searing cheek. She grabbed her bag and stumbled out of the flat, whimpering slightly at the pain. Richard seemed to be too much in a daze to stop her.

"Molly! Molly please! I don't know what came over me!" She heard him shout as she entered the lift, frantically pressing the "door close" button. She could hear his footsteps and she panicked. Luckily for her, the lift doors shut before she could see his face again.

She ran (if you could call it that) out of the block of flats as fast as she could. Thankfully for her, there was a taxi nearby and she floundered into it. Once she was in the vehicle and knew that she was safe, she started to cry.

The driver gave her a worried look in the review mirror, but she assured him that she was fine. She clutched her handbag tightly as she recalled the beating, wincing slightly when she remembered his hands on her thighs.

She settled in the taxi seat and wiped away her tears, knowing that it was going to be one long night.


	2. Discerning Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly attempts to forget about the incident with Richard.

Molly stood under her shower for a long time, letting the hot water trickle down her body, relaxing her tense muscles. She took a look at her right arm, which was sporting a brilliant purple bruise near her shoulder, and winced. She had always bruised easily. She inspected her cheek and was relieved that the red mark was starting to subside – she certainly didn't want to go to Bart's tomorrow with a marked face for her colleagues to gossip about.

Once she'd showered and was curled up on her sofa with a hot cup of chamomile tea, her first thought was to call Sherlock. She didn't have many friends and definitely fewer that she wanted to recount this experience to. But she remembered that he had a terrible temper and feared that he would do something he'd regret. Plus, he was currently working on a baffling case (even by his standards) and that just meant that he was more short-tempered than usual. She quickly banished the thought of informing him; she didn't want to worry him – he had more important matters to deal with.

Molly finally decided that she would just forget about the whole incident and pretend that it didn't happen. After all, she wasn't going to meet that arse again, so there would be no repeat of tonight's incident – that she was certain.

Pleased with her decision, she soon fell asleep with Toby curled up on her stomach.

* * *

Molly's eyes flickered over to Sherlock, who was engrossed with his microscope yet again. Behind him, John was snoring contentedly with his head propped on the lab table. Both men had pursued an important lead all night yesterday and John (as a normal human being) was completely exhausted.

Molly realised that she was having more trouble than she envisioned hiding her incident from Sherlock. It was difficult to move her right arm without wincing and she had to use her left arm more frequently than usual. She saw Sherlock giving her a quizzical look when she carried the test tube rack and Petri dishes to him with her weaker left hand. She rarely used her left hand for carrying things.

She turned around quickly, avoiding his questioning stare. She went to the other end of the lab table, busying herself with some autopsy reports that her boss, Mike Stamford, had instructed her to complete. Sighing, she started to leaf through the files. This was decidedly the least favourite part of her job; it was dull and routine.

She was right in the middle of her second report when she saw Sherlock moving towards her from the corner of her eye, probably wanting to get to the other side of the lab for some new microscope slides. She was blocking his path and he stretched out his arm to gently manoeuvre her out of his way.

Unfortunately for her, he had placed his hand near her right shoulder, just where the dreaded bruise was. His fingers pressed against her sore muscles and a sharp pain erupted. Forgetting that she was supposed to keep the injury a secret, she let out a wounded yelp. She saw Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise before darkening dangerously.

"Molly?" he cocked his head expectantly for an explanation.

Molly sighed. She really didn't want him to know that she was hurt and worry about her in addition to the case he was solving. And as irrational as it sounded, she actually felt slightly embarrassed that she was mistreated. _Why didn't I see the tell-tale signs of extreme jealousy when I was telling Richard about Sherlock? If only I wasn't so stupid._

So she decided to lie, something that had become alarmingly easier for her to do after keeping Sherlock's death a secret for two years. "I er…fell in the bathroom when I was giving Toby his bath yesterday. You know how he is with water," she laughed dryly, immediately hating herself for lying to him.

She knew she hadn't succeeded when she saw his brows furrow deeper between his eyes.

"Molly, please don't insult my intelligence by lying to me. You only give Toby his bath every Sunday and you are a creature of habit."

Molly cursed herself for forgetting that fact. Sherlock had lived with her for a while after his fall and had probably memorised every routine she had. He was still gazing at her expectantly and she decided that there was no point lying anymore.

"Remember that I went on a date yesterday with a Richard Matthews?" she squeaked, faltering slightly when she saw his expression darken at the mention of his name. "Well it turns out he wasn't so…nice after all," she finished lamely, not daring to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Show me," he ordered, his voice becoming scarily quiet.

Molly gingerly rolled up the sleeves of her lab coat and blouse, revealing the bruise in all its grotesque glory. It amazed her that it had spread overnight, although it was a much duller colour now. She heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath and peered at him nervously. He had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply.

Too deeply in fact.

Without warning, Sherlock banged the lab table loudly with his fists, causing Molly to jump back in fright and John to awake from his precious slumber.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell?" John mumbled sleepily, rubbing his sore neck.

Sherlock ignored his friend. "I'll find him," he told Molly, his eyes blazing with anger.

This was exactly what Molly had feared – a livid Sherlock going to find a man and probably getting himself in trouble during the process. "No you won't. I'm alright, really. I'm not seeing him again so can we just forget this? Please?" she pleaded.

"He _hurt_ you." Sherlock spat through gritted teeth.

John finally caught on and made his way to Molly's side, giving her a reassuring pat on her back. "Are you alright Molls?" He looked just as furious as Sherlock was.

Molly gave John a small smile and a nod to reassure him that she was fine. She looked at Sherlock imploringly. "Please don't do anything foolish. I'm fine so can we leave it at that?"

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue when John cut him off, noticing the fear on Molly's face. He understood that his best friend had a tendency to go overboard (and that was putting it mildly) when provoked.

"It's her decision Sherlock, not yours. Just leave it. If the bastard appears again, then we'll do something about it. You and me both." John said with a conviction that Molly had not heard in his voice before.

Sherlock pondered over John's words for a while before giving a curt nod. His blue eyes flickered to Molly's injury with concern before he picked up his coat and whisked out of the lab wordlessly.

"Do you think he's alright?" Molly asked John worriedly.

John looked at her incredulously. "You're worried about him? You're the injured one Molls! I'm more worried about you!"

"I'm ok John, it's just a bruise."

Molly gave the army doctor a sweet smile and he squeezed her hand back affectionately.

* * *

" _Mummy?"_

" _What is it Sherlock, can't you see I'm busy!" his mother barked at him._

_Sherlock shrank back. He just wanted to ask his mother why she was crying. He had heard his father's loud voice thundering through the living room before he heard a dull thud._

_He wondered if he should ask his mother about the dark bruise on her cheek. People don't just develop bruises for no reason do they? Or was that some new make-up style that she was trying? He'd just watch a fashion show on the telly out of boredom and the models had weird paintings on their faces._

_His mother's cold gaze frightened him. The sight of her six year old reminded her of her idiotic husband and it infuriated her. "Go back to your room! And tuck in your shirt properly! Haven't I taught you about etiquette?" she shouted. "And don't slouch!"_

_Sherlock ran up the stairs quickly, bumping into Mycroft._

" _Why did mummy scold me?" Sherlock whined to his older brother._

_Mycroft just gave him a sad look. "She's just over-emotional now that's all."_

" _I don't like over-emotional. Over-emotional is bad."_

" _It is. Remember Sherlock: Emotions are never a good thing."_

* * *

Sherlock leaned against the morgue corridor, allowing the icy cold air-conditioning to soothe the rage that was burning within him. He needed to compose himself and think logically. Now was not a good time to let his emotions take precedence.

He knew that Molly was right. He would get into trouble with the law if he went off and hurt (or possibly kill) the man who abused her. It would be an extremely irrational move on his part.

He remembered the time he threw the American out of the window after that moron had hurt Mrs Hudson. Lestrade had covered for him then; but he certainly wouldn't help him again.

And he obviously didn't want Mycroft to bail him out either. He tried his best to avoid his brother at all costs.

Sherlock was surprised at the fire chorusing through his veins. He was definitely enraged when Mrs Hudson was hurt, but this was different. He hadn't wanted to kill the American then, just gravely injure him.

But he was positively murderous now.

He felt his hands shaking slightly when he pictured the deep purple on Molly's soft skin and her -

_Soft skin? When did I notice the texture of her skin?_

The realisation startled him and he dug into the depths of his mind palace to visit Molly's room. He walked into it and was astonished that he had not only catalogued the colour of her hair under different lightings, but also the texture of it – it was supposedly soft and smooth.

_Why would I do that? It's not important to my cases._

The consulting detective was puzzled. He figured that the information was probably essential to him at some point before.

_I should delete now, it's useless._

He closed his eyes and entered Molly's room again, only to be painfully aware that he didn't want to delete that information. Deciding that it was probably due to his anger that he couldn't think logically, Sherlock shrugged it off and assured himself that he would delete it when he was feeling calm again.

He sighed loudly, feeling his anger gradually diminishing. Going into his mind palace always helped with emotionally-charged problems.

He wondered what a friend would do in this situation and decided to bring Molly some coffee to cheer her up. White, no sugar. That would elicit one of those sweet smiles that she –

Sherlock stopped himself from thinking further about her smiles.

He was definitely not himself today.

* * *

It was 6.50pm and Molly was close to ending her shift. Sherlock and John had left earlier after receiving an urgent call from Lestrade about some special yellow boots.

Molly hummed a few bars of Coldplay's 'Yellow' as she cleared her work area. She smiled when she saw the coffee cup that Sherlock had brought her just now. He had returned to the lab with an uncharacteristic kind smile on his face, holding out the coffee cup to her shyly while John gaped at his actions in the background. She was pleasantly surprised that he remembered how she took her coffee and felt her spirits soar. She sighed inwardly when she realised that she was still very much in love with Sherlock – every little thing he did could melt her heart.

She was just about to go into her office at the back of the lab when her boss arrived, holding a large bouquet of red roses with white hearts.

"Mike, what are you doing?" she giggled at the ridiculousness of the sight before her. Her boss smiled at her apologetically.

"Sorry Molly, this came for you earlier. The delivery boy brought it to my office since he couldn't find you and I forgot about it. Busy day."

She went forward to take the gift from him, confused as to who sent it. She saw him breathe a little easier when she relieved him of the flamboyant bouquet. Mike gave her a sheepish grin before leaving the lab, muttering something about "young love".

Molly saw that there was a card nestled among the flowers and she picked it out, getting more confused by the second. She never received presents like this before and could not for the life of her guess who it came from.

She opened it hesitantly:

_**Dearest Molly,** _

_**I'm truly sorry about what happened last night. It was rash of me to hit you but I hope you'll forgive me. I'm taking you to dinner tonight as an apology. I'll be outside of St. Bart's hospital at 7pm to pick you up. Hope you'll be there.** _

_**Love Richard** _


	3. Clashing Figures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly comes to a decision regarding Richard.

Molly's first instinct was to run.

The thought of meeting Richard again terrified her as she remembered his fist colliding with her arm. It was close to 7pm and she knew that Richard was probably already outside St. Bart's. Running into her office, Molly grabbed her bag, ready to bolt.

But a small (and logical) voice in her head told her to calm down and assess the situation. If she ran now, he would just come back another day. It was evident that he intended to see her and Molly surmised that he was not the type to take no for an answer. Leaning against her desk for support (her knees had started to feel slightly wobbly), she took deep breaths so that she could think straight. _Come on Molly, you have a degree in forensic pathology. Now think!_

She knew that she only had 3 feasible options:

1\. Run and hide

2\. Call Sherlock

3\. Confront Richard herself

She mentally cancelled the first option. She understood that running away would only prolong this problem. She shuddered at the thought of him waiting outside St. Bart's for days to come, imprisoning her and making her frightened of the place she called her second home.

She considered the tempting possibility of calling Sherlock. Just a phone call and he would scare and grievously insult Richard away permanently. But she remembered that he was with Lestrade investigating a new lead for his case and didn't want to disturb him. They were dealing with a serial killer and every moment he spent away from the case meant that some poor soul had a higher probability of being murdered – that was surely worse than her seeing Richard again. _That rules it out then._

This left her with the choice of confronting Richard herself. While her heartbeat increased at the thought, she knew that logically, he couldn't physically harm her in a public area. Now would be the best time to confront him and end this permanently. She was surprised that this conclusion did not make her panic like she thought it would. If she could save Sherlock Holmes and maintain a semblance of normalcy while he disappeared for 2 years after his "death", she could bloody well deal with this man. Lifting her chin up slightly, Molly slung her bag over her shoulder and left the lab with conviction.

As she passed the lab table, she grabbed a pair of scissors and stuffed it into her pants pocket.

* * *

She felt him before she could see him, his penetrating gaze focused on her. She looked up and saw him standing stiffly by his car parked by the road, dressed in a navy blue suit that clashed horribly with his light brown hair. His clothing gave her the impression that he wanted this night to be special and she felt goose bumps prickle on her skin. His dark eyes were fiercely determined and he held another bouquet of flowers in his hands – orchids this time. She silently thanked the heavens that at least there weren't white hearts among the flowers this time – she was never one for grandiose things.

Molly cautiously walked up to him. As she neared him, he gave her a smile, causing shivers to run down her spine. Her previous bravado started to fade and her instinct for flight kicked in again. _Don't be stupid, woman. You can do this,_ she chided herself. She stopped when she was a few metres away from him, refusing to go nearer just in case. His face tightened when he saw her keep a distance but he recovered quickly and handed her the bouquet.

"These are for you, Molly. I hope you like them."

"Thank you." She looked towards the busy street, not knowing how to proceed. Was she supposed to start the ball rolling? How do people even deal with such situations?

"Shall we go for dinner then?" Richard asked, flashing her another one of his smiles that made her spine cold.

Molly was speechless. She couldn't believe that he would just waltz here with flowers and hoped that she would forget about that night if he gave her one of his charming smiles. If she weren't so nervous, she would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation. It was as if he thought that she was a complete pushover and easy to manipulate. Her temper started to rise - yes, she was shy and timid but that didn't mean that she was a doormat. She saw Richard tilt his head awaiting her response.

She took a deep breath before saying, "No."

"Beg your pardon?"

"I said **no** , Richard," her voice was louder now, more confident. "I'm sorry but I can't go to dinner with you. And I think it's for the best if we don't meet each other again."

She saw Richard's expression shift from surprise, to shock and then to anger. His eyes darkened, just like that night in his flat. Alarmed, Molly stepped back instinctively. He was glaring at her now, obviously furious at being turned down.

"How dare you turn me away after I come here apologising and giving you flowers!" he hissed menacingly. "I spent time and money on you and this is how you treat me!"

Molly shrank back. He looked livid and once again, she felt her courage melting away.

"It was only a small hit and you shrink away from me like I'm a **freak**!" his voice was rather loud now and it was attracting some stares from the more curious passers-by. Molly suddenly felt like she was a zoo exhibition, displayed for everyone to stare at.

In spite of herself, Molly pitied Richard. He seemed to have some anger management issues that were controlling him. She had met people who suffered badly from psychological problems and it was painful seeing them struggle to overcome the problems with the social stigma that came with it.

"I don't think you're a freak Richard," she said quietly. "But I think that you need to seek help for your anger."

Richard was stunned by her words, his brows furrowing deeper with each passing second. She had just allowed herself to think that she had calmed him when his eyes suddenly flashed dangerously.

"I don't have a problem you little _bitch._ You're just trying to make me into a freak so that you feel better about turning me down!" He wasn't even trying to keep his voice down anymore and Molly subconsciously curled her fingers around the scissors in her pocket.

"You think you're above me don't you! Working in a fancy hospital as a successful pathologist while I'm just an ordinary journalist! Well news flash, woman! You're not worth all this trouble! You're not even pretty with your small lips and –"

The punch was so sudden that Molly didn't even see it connect with Richard's jaw. All she heard was a loud gasp and then Richard was lying on the floor clutching his face. The passers-by scattered quickly, not wanting to be involved.

Molly spun around and saw the consulting detective breathing heavily behind her, a vehement and murderous glint in his pale blue eyes. The phrase, 'If looks could kill' suddenly made a lot of sense. She felt her hair standing when she saw Sherlock's expression.

He moved slowly with measured steps towards Richard, who was still lying on the pavement. His cheek was cut and it was red as a tomato.

Sherlock pulled Richard up by his dress shirt collar, tightening his grip as he studied him with repulsion on his face. "I would kill you if there weren't so many people around. Count this your lucky day Richard Matthews," he spat venomously.

Richard looked too surprised to say anything. His eyes widened in fear when he read the conviction in Sherlock's eyes – this was not a man he could toy around with.

"Sherlock…" Molly whispered, hoping that he wouldn't do anything stupid in front of so many people.

Sherlock ignored her. "I highly suggest that you utilise whatever limited brain power you possess and leave this place right now. Wouldn't want another punch now, do we? I can't be sure where it might land this time." His lips curled into a smirk so terrible that Molly thought her heart might stop. "And if I see you near her at all, I won't hesitate to injure you _Richard,_ " he pronounced his name mockingly.

Sherlock released his grip on Richard, who had turned somewhat blue in the face. He stumbled backwards, rubbing his jaw to ease the pain.

"By the way, Molly's favourite flowers are daisies you idiot, not roses and orchids. I thought that an investigative journalist would at least do his research. And I would get that condition of yours checked as soon as possible. Oh, don't give me that look. I'm not talking about your anger management. I was talking about the fact that you so obviously suffer from halitosis. That's bad breath in layman's term." Sherlock made sure that his words could be heard clearly by anyone in the immediate vicinity.

Without a second glance, Sherlock took the orchids from Molly and dumped them into a nearby dustbin before manoeuvring her into a taxi.

Molly took one last look at Richard before she stepped into the car – his face was red with embarrassment and anger. She swore that she heard some people sniggering at him as she closed the door of the taxi. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, muttered something like "moron" and directed the driver to Molly's flat.

* * *

Richard stared at the receding figure of the taxi, his blood boiling furiously. He could feel the stares of the people around him and he rushed into his car with as much dignity as he could muster.

The thought of the lean man in his long coat and scarf infuriated him. He could still picture his cold blue eyes and sneering lips. He hated him.

He'd teach him not to mess with Richard Matthews.


	4. Nebulous Recollections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spends some time with Molly after helping her.

" _Thanks Sherlock. I don't know what would've happened if you weren't there."_

" _You're welcome," he gave her a small smile._

" _How did you know that he was coming to Bart's?"_

" _I didn't," Sherlock replied with gritted teeth. "I had solved my case and I wanted some fingers for a new experiment. Just a coincidence that I saw the moron."_

" _How did you know_ _about the roses then? You weren't in the lab when I received them."_

" _I could smell them on you. He must have sent a big bouquet. Am I wrong?"_

_Molly shook her head and Sherlock smirked. "Typical romantic idiot."_

" _Sherlock?"_

" _Hmm?"_

" _I'll get you some fingers tomorrow."_

_Sherlock's lips turned upwards into a boyish grin as he stared out of the taxi window._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was locked in a staring contest with Toby when Molly emerged from the shower.

The consulting detective had folded his arms and was steadily glaring at the cat, which refused to budge from its comfortable position on the sofa. Toby, in turn, was staring at Sherlock with what could only be an annoyed expression, occasionally hissing at him. Their appearances were so similar that Molly burst out laughing, eliciting a scowl from Sherlock.

"You should control your feline better, Molly. His behaviour is positively atrocious. I've been trying to move him for 15 minutes." he complained, pouting like a child.

"It's a cat, Sherlock! It does what it wants to!" Molly chuckled. "Reminds me a bit of you actually."

He glowered at her. "Don't make jokes, Molly."

Still laughing, she went into her kitchen to scrape up something for dinner even though she wasn't hungry. "Are crisps for dinner alright with you, Sherlock? I don't have anything else I'm afraid."

"It's fine, I'm not very hungry."

Molly rummaged through her kitchen for some crisps and hesitated before grabbing a bottle of wine as well. She wasn't much of a drinker (and she had an embarrassing low tolerance for alcohol) but she felt that she needed something to help her relax after today. She had used up much of her energy dealing with Richard and she was mentally exhausted.

A small voice in her head told her that maybe she was also slightly nervous that Sherlock Holmes was in her house. The last time he actually set foot in her flat was when he was hiding from the world after his death – it was not much of a choice for him then. And he had only stayed for a week then. But this time, he was here out of his own accord and the fact that he didn't rush back to 221B after dropping her off made her happy. _More happy than I should be,_ she admitted.

Molly smiled when she came out of the kitchen. Sherlock had apparently admitted defeat, sitting at the other end of the sofa while glaring at the male tabby, a sulky expression on his pale face (Molly thought that it was cute). She went over to scratch Toby's ears, who purred contentedly while Sherlock eyed it suspiciously.

They never did get along, even when he was living with her.

She plonked herself between Sherlock and Toby before tearing open her bag of chips, relieved that she could finally rest. Sherlock gratefully munched on his crisps (she guessed that he hadn't eaten anything for close to 24 hours) while he recounted his newly solved case to her. His arms moved around animatedly and his eyes brightened whenever he reached an interesting part of his case. She couldn't deny that fact that he was an excellent storyteller when he wanted to be.

Molly suddenly became painfully aware of how close they were actually sitting. Because of Toby's newfound love for her sofa ( _that bloody cat,_ she thought), there wasn't much space left for Sherlock and her to occupy on her small sofa. Every now and then, his arms would lightly brush against hers or their knees would touch. Her mind went into overdrive and she hastily gulped down more wine to calm herself.

It didn't work.

All the feelings for him that she had studiously tried to repress came bubbling up to the surface again. She found herself transfixed by his beautifully curved lips and the way his dark curls bounced slightly when he moved his head. She imagined (for the umpteenth time) how it would feel to run her fingers through that mop of luscious curls. She wondered if his lips were as soft as they looked or if the skin on his neck was smooth. Realising that her thoughts were straying to someplace embarrassing, she quickly gulped down more wine to compose herself. Without realising it, she had already consumed most of the wine on her own.

( _Bollocks. I'm going to get drunk.)_

_(Maybe you already are.)_

The separate voice in her head that manifested whenever she got drunk was starting to appear. She felt herself getting more lightheaded by the second and she knew that she was in trouble. She groaned inwardly – it was mortifying when she was drunk. She would be extremely quiet until something triggered the rapid development of an enthusiasm disposition in her. Apart from giggling like an immature child at everything, Molly would also passionately pour out her secrets to whoever was conveniently beside her before promptly falling asleep.

_(Stop drinking Molly!)_

But for reasons unknown, she couldn't stop. Her thoughts were starting to run into one another and she felt like the only way out was to keep drinking. Her lips kept making contact with her wine glass as she struggled to not reach out and touch Sherlock on his arm to see if he were still real.

He was right in the middle of describing a car chase with John when Molly heard the dreaded sound.

Her giggle.

_(Oh no, now you've done it!)_

She pushed that small voice in her head away irritably; it was starting to give her a headache. She saw Sherlock staring at her, his eyes widening slightly in alarm at her sudden laugh.

"Stop staring at me with your blue eyes like that. It's very…attractive!" she giggled again. "Why must you keep being so attractive!" she groaned, a pained expression on her face.

She moved closer to Sherlock, poking him in the chest with her index finger. "Do you think I'm attractive?"

_(Stop it Molly!)_

In spite of himself, Sherlock smiled. This was one side of the gentle pathologist that he had not seen before and he had to admit that it was rather entertaining. He had never seen her so upfront before.

"Why are you smiling?" She poked his chest again. "You haven't answered my question…detective." She heard herself giggling again.

_(Good lord, Molly Hooper.)_

"I think you're attractive, Molly."

_(Wait, what?)_

"Liar!" she pouted. "You said that my lips and breasts were small during that Christmas party!"

She saw something akin to remorse on Sherlock's face before he spoke.

"I'm sorry I said those things. I didn't mean them in a negative way. There's nothing wrong with having small lips and breasts."

Molly looked at Sherlock in surprise. He had said it so sincerely that she wondered if it were true. But her mind was too cloudy at the moment and she had no intention whatsoever to analyse his words, something that she was no stranger to doing.

"So…you…like me?"

"Yes." Sherlock frowned, wondering what this was all about.

"No silly," she giggled again. "I meant _like_ me _like_ me."

_(Oh you've crossed the line, woman.)_

Molly looked at Sherlock intently, a silly smile plastered on her face. Her brain was screaming at her to stop smiling, but her mind and body were strangely disconnected and she felt like she was flying.

She saw him hesitate before he replied, "No."

She had expected that answer. It was the same answer he had been giving her for the past 4 years. But that didn't mean that she didn't feel hurt. She felt a sinking feeling settling in her gut and she wanted to curl up and cry.

_(Get a grip, Molly.)_

If she were completely sane, she would have apologised for her ridiculous behaviour and pray for the ground to open and swallow her up.

But in her drunken state of bravery, she decided to pursue the matter further.

"You're…ly..lying. You remember…remembered that my favourite flowers were…daisies. I only told you...that once. But you…remembered."

"Molly, I have an excellent memory. Of course I remembered," Sherlock told her gently. But she noticed that he now looked extremely uncomfortable.

Unable to think of any other way to salvage the situation, Molly decided to do the stupidest thing she had ever done.

She decided to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

She pressed her lips lightly to his lips _(soft and warm)_ and felt him froze immediately. He didn't return her kiss, but he didn't push her away either. After a few long seconds, he finally moved backwards, breaking her kiss. Again, she felt that sinking feeling in her gut, but was getting a bit too sleepy to care. She could feel her eyelids drooping.

"Are you…angry with…me?" she slurred, noticing the deep frown between his eyes.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to suppress a smile. "No, but I think you should sleep now."

"Ok…I'm pretty…sleepy," she yawned, before giggling again.

_(STOP MOLLY!)_

Sherlock smiled before guiding her up. "Let's get you to bed."

She looked at him cheekily and Sherlock smirked. "So that you can _sleep_ , Molly Hooper."

Molly gave him a light punch on his shoulder as he half-dragged, half-carried her to the bedroom. She felt herself being placed on the bed and her duvet being dragged over her. She thought she felt something warm and soft being pressed against her forehead but she couldn't be sure.

And then she remembered nothing.

* * *

Molly woke up the next morning with a horrendous headache. She groaned as she tried to sit up, immediately sinking back into her soft bed because of the dull ache between her eyes. She noticed some aspirins and a note lying beside her and she picked it up to read.

_**I've called Mike Stamford to inform him of your sick leave today. Take the aspirins for the headache. - SH** _

Molly was extremely touched and amazed by Sherlock's gesture and psychic ability before the reason behind his actions dawned on her.

_Oh no._

She vaguely remembered that she had gulped down a lot of wine. And that she had tried to kiss Sherlock Holmes while giggling away like a schoolgirl. And that she had asked him if she was attractive.

She shut her eyes tightly, feeling a deep rush of humiliation wash over her.

She had been drunk in front of Sherlock Holmes.

_Oh god. Please let me disappear._

She swallowed 2 of the pills before hastily sending him a text, her face reddening at an alarming pace.

_**Thanks for calling Mike for me and leaving the aspirins by my bed. I'm sorry if I did anything that made you uncomfortable yesterday. – Molly** _

She curled under her duvet after sending the text, wishing that he wouldn't reply. But she had no such luck as her phone vibrated after a few minutes.

_**You're welcome. Get some rest. – SH** _

Molly groaned and buried her face in her pillow, feeling immensely ashamed of herself. She mentally rebuked herself for indulging in so much wine last night. She wondered how she should react to Sherlock when she met him next.

Except that she hadn't needed to worry about that.

Molly didn't see the consulting detective for the next two weeks. He didn't even come over for his new fingers.


	5. Unwanted Enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Sherlock got up to in the 2 weeks that he didn't see Molly.

_Two weeks ago…_

Sherlock's heart was thumping heavily as he made his way into his bedroom, ignoring the incredulous stare from John as he plastered four nicotine patches on his forearm. This was definitely a four patch problem, no questions about it.

He lay on his bed in the dark with his fingers propped under his chin, willing the tingly sensation in his stomach to subside. The nicotine chorused through his veins and his body screamed in welcome. When he was sure that he had settled down, Sherlock allowed himself to venture back to the incident at Molly's house to make sense of the odd stirrings he had felt.

His mind instantly wandered back to Molly's kiss. The mousey pathologist had actually placed her lips on his, shocking him to a standstill. But that wasn't the thing that truly unsettled him. He knew that not many people would take to being kissed abruptly with an air of calm.

What really confused him was how he had felt at the touch of her lips.

It was supposed to be straightforward – 2 pairs of lips touching, nothing more. But the heat he had felt at her contact was anything but straightforward. Her lips were extremely warm and soft and he couldn't forget how well they fitted with his. It took all the willpower he possessed not to return the kiss. His hands even shook slightly after he broke away. _Interesting,_ he thought.

He had told her that she was attractive, and the worrisome part was that he wasn't lying. It wasn't some inane attempt to flirt with her to get what he wanted. She was drunk for god's sake; she couldn't have offered him anything.

_Except her lips._

_Stop it Sherlock,_ he chided himself.

He had genuinely meant that she was attractive and it had slipped out of his mouth accidentally. Was she attractive? Well, he supposed she was. Contrary to what John thought, he could actually see when someone was pretty. He just doesn't find any reason to acknowledge it. Molly wasn't attractive like all the overly airbrushed models he saw on the covers of John's magazines as he snooped around his room for hidden cigarettes (truthfully, he couldn't see what the fuss about those models was).

But there was something oddly enticing about her. The way her chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders and the stray strands of hair tangling at her neck; the brightening of her brown eyes whenever she was happy; the way she would chew on her bottom lip while she was thinking or stick out her tongue slightly when something confused her. Her laughter was melodious and had three distinct notes that always made Sherlock privately take notice – it always unintentionally raised his spirits whenever he heard it.

 _I never realised that I catalogued so much information about her._ _But I did, didn't I? I even remembered what flowers she likes, for god's sake._

He revisited the feeling that chorused through him when he brushed against her skin on the sofa. It was merely a group of cells making contact with each other – simple friction. So why did it make him panic slightly and ramble incessantly about his solved case? He had talked rapidly without break, refusing to let his mind slow down enough to concentrate on her soft skin. He even steadily avoided her gaze, which was the reason he didn't notice she was ingesting too much alcohol for her body size.

_Why did it feel so…good when her hands touched mine?_

Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration. It was all very disconcerting and this was exactly why he hated dealing with emotions.

Perhaps this was some new reaction that only females could stir in him recently. But that wasn't right. Sally Donovan, a Scotland Yard officer, was a female and yet he hadn't felt any of these emotions when he was around her. The things he felt had been of a different sort entirely and they certainly weren't pleasant.

Truthfully, he had been feeling these weird sensations with increasing frequency and vigour over the past few months when he was around Molly, but had just irritably pushed them out of his mind, too busy to care.

But he couldn't ignore them anymore, not when they were so perplexing.

He methodically went through the things he experienced when he was around her: Slight racing of his pulse, pleasant warmth, the intoxicating smell that kept emanating from her –

_Oh hell._

He had always thought that it was just the perfume that she was using. Strawberries, vanilla and something else that he couldn't quite recognise. All he knew was that her scent was overwhelmingly appealing to him. But it dawned on him that Molly didn't use to smell like that when he first met her. In fact, she only started smelling particularly good sometime after his fall. And being a creature of habit, she hadn't changed her perfume in years.

There was only one logical explanation for it.

Pheromones.

Chemicals that signified attraction to someone else.

"NO!" Sherlock said loudly. He felt himself sweating slightly and he kicked off his shoes to cool down. "NO!" he reiterated, as if repeating it would somehow make it true.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John was knocking on his door, concern evident in his voice. "You ok? I saw you taking 4 nicotine patches just now."

Sherlock didn't bother to unlock his door. "I'm fine, John. Go back to your crap telly programme."

"Ok…" John sounded unconvinced. "But there's a client who phoned to say that he wants to meet tomorrow. What time do you want?"

"Cancel it."

"What? Why? It sounds like it might be at least a seven or an eight case."

"Cancel it." Sherlock repeated monotonously.

"Ok…Do you want to tell me what's wrong? You were supposed to go to the morgue to pick up some new fingers but I don't see them. Something happened with Molly?"

"Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Oh. Goodnight then." Sherlock heard John shuffling away from the door and he breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to enter his mind palace immediately. This was definitely, as he liked to term it, a serious emergency.

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

That was his motto in life, his one indispensable philosophy. Everything he believed centered on this. If he was going to follow these words of wisdom, then there was only one possible answer to the sensations that he was experiencing.

* * *

_Present…_

John was starting to get worried. It had been two weeks since Sherlock stuck four nicotine patches on his arm and he was still acting odd.

Instead of getting excited at the prospect of cases that were higher than a six, Sherlock would refuse to accept them, opting to work on cases that were easy for him to solve.

He would lounge around most of the day in his pyjamas, sawing away on his violin or lying on the sofa, completely motionless. And then in an abrupt turn of events, he would launch into one of his childish tantrums, demanding that John get him something specific from the grocery store or making Mrs Hudson brew him some tea, which had to be of a particular temperature and concentration. He even went as far as to order John to check his vitals for any signs of illness, claiming an odd feeling in his stomach. If he didn't get what he wanted, all hell broke loose and John had to quickly find a hiding place for his gun, which Sherlock somehow always managed to find despite John's best attempts to conceal it.

Contrary to what Sherlock thought, John wasn't always unobservant – he could observe when the occasion called for it. He knew that something bad had transpired between Sherlock and Molly when he went to pick up his bloody fingers that day. That was probably why he only accepted easy cases that didn't need the use of elaborate lap equipment, thereby managing to avoid the morgue.

One day, after an exceptionally horrible tantrum of Sherlock's that had John threatening to phone Mycroft, John decided that he had had enough of this nonsense. He was tired of his friend's silly antics.

It was time to pay Molly a visit.

* * *

Molly was alone in the lab, attempting to make sense of a toxicology report that she had been blankly staring at for the past half hour. Her eyes were fixated on the page but none of the words she saw were being processed by her brain .She kept attempting to refocus on her work but as expected, it was futile.

Her mind kept straying back to Sherlock's abrupt absence. Ever since that embarrassing night when she was drunk, he hadn't been back to Bart's. She knew that he usually came over only when he needed the lab equipment for a case, but it still didn't help her forget the fact that he had not come to collect his finger specimens from her. Or that he didn't reply to the two other text messages she had sent him.

It was pretty obvious by this point that he was avoiding her. However, she couldn't understand why he would. Granted, she had been a bumbling fool and expressed her feelings towards him in a frank manner that was uncharacteristic of her. But her love was not news to him, so she didn't see why it would make him uncomfortable enough to avoid her. She considered going over to Baker Street to confront him but surmised that he would not be too happy about her turning up in his personal space without an invite.

Molly stifled a yawn as she rubbed her tired eyes. She definitely hadn't been sleeping well for the past two weeks, too concerned over Sherlock's sudden disappearance.

To make matters worse, she couldn't shake off the eerie feeling that she was being followed.

It had started about a week ago, when she was grabbing some coffee from the café opposite Bart's. There was a nagging feeling in her gut that someone was staring at her but when she scanned the place surreptitiously, she found no one. After that incident, the sensation of being watched never really left. She would feel eyes trained on her when she was grocery shopping, or when she was walking home from the train station. Initially, she thought that she was just being overly paranoid because of the sleepless nights that she was having.

However, a few days ago, she spotted a figure watching her from the opposite street when she was eating at a restaurant. It had only been a split second but she was sure that she had seen someone staring at her before he disappeared among the crowd. She couldn't make out who it was; just that it was certainly a man. That incident had left her slightly frightened, which only added to her current stress levels.

The lab doors opened suddenly and Molly started, breaking out of her reverie.

"Hey Molly," John smiled at her.

"Hey John!" Molly was truly happy to see him and she went over to give the army doctor a hug. She had missed his friendly and calming presence in her lab.

The two of them were engaged in some small talk about their work lives when she found John staring at her with a critical eye.

"You haven't been sleeping well Molls." It wasn't a question, merely an honest statement.

Molly sighed, knowing that the dark rings under her eyes were more pronounced recently. "Yeah, I've just got quite a bit on my plate these days." She didn't want to tell him that she was spending her nights thinking about Sherlock and about some faceless man stalking her.

She saw John hesitate slightly and shift his feet before he looked back at her. "Has it got anything to do with Sherlock?"

Molly's jaw unhinged immediately. She was surprised that he had hit the nail on the head. She secretly wondered if Sherlock had told him anything of what had passed between them and blushed at the thought. John noticed her silence and looked at her with a kind eye. "I take that as a yes then?"

Molly nodded, a lump suddenly forming in her throat. She had tried to ignore the fact that she was hurt by Sherlock sudden disappearance but John's concerned looks were bringing those emotions to the surface again. She swallowed hard to relieve the tight feeling in her throat.

"Actually….I'm here to talk to you about him," John said, looking slightly awkward.

"Really?" Molly couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Yeah. He's been acting weird lately and throwing some really bad tantrums, even for his standards. Think you can spare some time after work? Please?"

Molly saw the desperate look in John's eyes and nodded. "I end at 6. We can go grab some dinner then."

John looked so relieved that Molly couldn't help smiling. "You could've just texted me you know. Didn't have to come all the way here."

"No way! I'd much rather be here than at home now. He's driving me nuts." A look of alarm appeared on John's face as he remembered something and Molly giggled. She had heard many stories of Sherlock's childish rants and none had been particularly easy on John.

"Don't mind me Molly. I'll just catch a snooze at the corner." John trudged to one of the lab tables and propped his head to a comfortable position before promptly slipping into a nap. Molly guessed that Sherlock had been keeping him up at night too.

She turned her attention back to her toxicology report, descending back into her pretense of working. She secretly wondered why John wanted to talk to her about Sherlock's tantrums. Surely she couldn't be of any help? It was all very confusing.

Molly hoped that 6pm would arrive soon.


	6. Still A Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and John try to unravel the mystery behind Sherlock's tantrums.

John was tucking in so heartily into his chicken stir fry that Molly couldn't resist smiling. She watched him stuff pieces of chicken into his mouth eagerly, a blissful look of contentment on his face. He was so engrossed with the food that he didn't notice the sauce that had stained the side of his lips. He looked up when he heard Molly chuckling softly, his eyebrows raised in confusion. Molly gestured to her lips and John quickly took his napkin to wipe off the sauce, looking slightly embarrassed at his dining manner.

"Sorry Molly, too hungry. Plus, the food here is just brilliant!"

Molly readily agreed. This Chinese restaurant had always been one of her favourite places to dine at. It somehow managed to serve delicious food at a cheap price, something that was fast becoming scarce in London. Plus the fact that it was just a stone's throw away from her house meant that she was used to having her meals here regularly.

"So has that abusive date of yours contacted you again?" John suddenly enquired, concern reflected in his eyes as he ate another piece of chicken.

"Just once - the day you guys went to investigate the lead on the yellow boots. Sherlock scared him off though so I doubt he'll be back." Molly felt her chest tightening slightly at the mention of Sherlock and took a sip of her tea to release the tension. She saw John look at her in bewilderment and she hastened to explain.

"He deduced Richard in front of a large crowd of passers-by in true Sherlock fashion."

"I didn't know he did that!" John was utterly surprised. He felt a small tinge of pride at his best friend's actions. "He didn't mention anything to me. If he'd said something, I would probably be more predisposed to forgive him for his bloody tantrums."

"What tantrums has he been throwing?"

"Let's see…just last week he refused to eat anything for a good three days. When I did manage to coax him to eat, he demanded some bloody pasta from the other side of London, which he only took a bite of after I went all the way to buy it! He had the cheek to claim that it wasn't what he asked for! And a few days ago, he decided that it would be good to experiment on some rotting flesh…" – both John and Molly cringed and Molly pushed her pork dish away from her, quickly losing her appetite – "…but the experiment didn't go right. And instead of cleaning the kitchen to get rid of the stench, he went around complaining like a five year old and turning the house inside out to search for some cigarettes, leaving _me_ to clean the kitchen!" John groaned. "I swear I'm going insane soon! Mrs Hudson doesn't even dare step into the flat now."

Molly gaped, not quite believing the chaos that was occurring at Baker Street. She knew that Sherlock was prone to bouts of childish behaviour (she'd experienced it first-hand many times) but it was never like this. She briefly entertained the thought that his tantrums had something to do with her but banished it immediately. He was probably fixated on something more pressing and ergo, had ignored her texts and forgotten to pick up his fingers. As ridiculous as it sounded, she rather it be this way. At least he wasn't avoiding her for reasons unknown.

"I need your help Molls!" John pleaded, looking at her imploringly.

"Of course," Molly patted his hand to comfort him. "But what do you propose I do though?"

"I need you to tell me what happened between you two the day he was supposed to pick up his fingers."

Molly's teacup froze halfway to her lips. "Why?"

John took a deep breath before continuing, not quite meeting her eyes. "Because I think his tantrums have got something to do with you."

Molly's jaw unhinged itself slightly as his words sunk in. When in the world was _she_ able to elicit such tempestuous mood swings from Sherlock Holmes? It was almost laughable. "His tantrums seem particularly bad this time John. Surely I can't be the cause of them?"

"It's just a hunch I got Molls. His odd behaviour only started after he went to meet you. When he came back that night, he plastered four bloody nicotine patches on his forearm and locked himself in his room."

"Four?" Molly whispered, eyes widening in dismay. Four patches were extremely dangerous and she felt a mixture of concern and anger at Sherlock's actions.

"Oh don't worry, he's done worse things to his body before." John waved his hands dismissively, noticing the anxiety on Molly's face. Molly however, didn't feel consoled by John's pronouncement. _Worse things? What worse things?_

"I reckon he's in perfect health since he could actually saw away on his violin the very next day," John sighed loudly, rubbing his face in frustration. "Maybe if you told me what happened that night, I might be able to infer something useful to stop this madness."

He looked over at Molly hopefully and she figured that she had nothing to lose in telling him what had passed between Sherlock and her. After all, he really needed her help and maybe he could provide a fresh pair of eyes to the situation that was getting increasingly perplexing.

She briefly described the events that happened that day, starting from Sherlock's encounter with Richard and ending with the embarrassing incident at her house. When she finally finished, she stared at her knees, letting John process the information while she tried to contain the warmth that was spreading on her cheeks.

Whatever reaction she was expecting from him though, it was certainly not this.

John suddenly burst into a loud peal of laughter before reaching over the table to give Molly's shoulder a pat. "About time Molly!" he chuckled, clutching his stomach to ease the tension.

"W-What?"

"About time you snogged him! You've liked him for so long I was wondering when you were going to do it! So how did it go?" he grinned, throwing her a playful look.

"He froze actually. It was more of me kissing him I think. Or attempting to at least, in my inebriated state."

"Oh don't worry Molls. At least he didn't push you away. That's not bad coming from Sherlock," he teased, drawing a smile from Molly.

Leaning back in his chair, John pondered over this new information. For the life of him, he still couldn't understand what had aggravated Sherlock. If he was being truthful, nothing particularly disconcerting had happened at all. The incident with Richard seemed like a common Sherlock deduction time scenario (god knows how many people he had insulted in his life), albeit with more intensity and harshness. But John assumed that his friend would've been rather pleased with the way things went with Richard, so that shouldn't be the cause of his tantrums.

If it wasn't Richard, then the only other person Sherlock had contact with that day was Molly. But Molly hadn't done anything upsetting, as far as John could tell. Amusing yes, but definitely not upsetting. The most unsettling thing she did was just to kiss Sherlock Holmes. Surely Sherlock wasn't petty enough to bother so much about a kiss from Molly? She was inebriated for god's sake, it wasn't really her fault. Even Sherlock Holmes couldn't be this childish. John groaned inwardly, feeling like he had hit a dead end.

It was times like these when one of Sherlock's favourite phrases - "You see but you don't observe" - would've aptly described the situation. If John Watson was sharper in his observations, he would've realised that Sherlock had grown increasingly gentle with Molly over the recent months. So gentle, that an outsider without any prior knowledge of Sherlock's disposition might readily assume that he harboured some feelings for the pathologist. If John had the hawk-like eyes of Sherlock, he would've seen the consulting detective sneaking glances at Molly when they were working together. It didn't happen often, but the important thing was that it happened at all – everyone knew that Sherlock was not one to look away from his beloved microscope while he was working. The most blatant thing that John had missed was the fact that Sherlock had accidentally called Molly "his pathologist" once. It was purely a Freudian slip on his part and he had quickly rearranged his features to one of casual nonchalance, his palms sweating in the process. But John didn't notice the slip either. He was still unobservant enough to let all these slip by, which meant that the matter at hand was nowhere close to getting solved.

"Nothing?" Molly asked.

John shook his head sadly, on the brink of giving up trying to construct a semblance of normalcy in his house again. His handphone vibrated suddenly, causing him to start. He took it out of his pocket, wondering if it might be Mary, the woman he was currently interested in.

No such luck.

_**Get some milk. – SH** _

John sighed. He had just gotten some milk yesterday, which meant that Sherlock had done something with it. In all honesty, he didn't really want to know what Sherlock had used the milk for. He was afraid to know.

"What's wrong?" Molly's soft voice broke his thoughts.

"Nothing. Sherlock just texted me to get some milk."

"Oh, there's a grocery store down the corner and I need to get some cat food for Toby too. Shall we go then?"

Both of them paid their bills and left the restaurant, walking silently to the grocery store, deep in their own thoughts. After buying their things, John insisted on walking Molly back to her house, which was only a few blocks away. As they strolled to her flat in the chill, night air, Molly had the sneaking suspicion of being watched again. Tentatively, she took a look around but she couldn't see anyone else. She instinctively stepped closer to John, glancing at him to see if he had felt someone watching them too. But he was happily chatting away about a funny patient he tended to a few days ago at his clinic, oblivious to the fact that Molly had grown uncomfortable and nervous. She tried to listen to another pair of footsteps, anything that could give away the presence of someone else besides them.

But there was nothing.

Frowning, she decided to give up. John gave her a warm hug when they reached her flat and she trudged up the stairs, waving goodbye to him and assuring him that Sherlock would get better soon.

She hoped that for John's sanity, he would.

* * *

John breathed in the cold night air and felt more refreshed than he had for the past 2 weeks. Dinner with Molly, someone he could actually talk about Sherlock with, had helped him considerably. Granted, he was still nowhere near solving the mystery of Sherlock's mood swings but he felt much better after sharing his troubles with someone who wasn't Mrs Hudson. He wondered why he hadn't come to Molly earlier.

The both of them had grown closer during Sherlock's time in the land of the dead – Molly had been a source of comfort for him; she was like a sister. When he found out that she had always known that Sherlock was alive, he was hurt, but couldn't find it in himself to be angry at her or push her away. He understood that she did that all for Sherlock, the one man who she had the curse of loving. _Sherlock doesn't see how lucky he is to have her,_ he thought.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice a shadow lurking at the side of an alleyway until it was too late. He had just turned a bend in order to reach the main street when he saw a sudden movement from the corner of his eyes. His body tensed immediately but before he could react, he felt himself being yanked roughly into the alleyway, his body pinned against the hard wall.

He gasped loudly as thick fingers curled tightly around his throat, making him choke. His own hands grabbed the attacker's arms, trying to pry them off his throat, but it was useless. Fear gripped him and his mind started to cloud. But his military training kicked in almost immediately and he buried the fear deep within him. He felt oddly detached from the situation, as if he was staring at the scene from a passer-by's perspective – this always happened to him when he encountered moments of danger. Over his years in Afghanistan with the British army, he was able to perfect this skill of detachment, making it easier for him to handle the stress during perilous situations.

His eyes flickered towards the attacker and noticed that it was a man, judging from his built.

"Wha- do you…want?" John choked out, desperately trying to move away from the man's tightening fingers. But John was a small man and strength was never his strong suit. When he realised that it was futile to keep moving, he gave up and concentrated on collecting as much information about the attacker's physical attributes instead.

Due to the darkness of the alleyway, John could hardly see much, the only light being the shining moon in the skies above. The man was tall, almost as tall as Sherlock, but was much burlier. He was wearing a hooded jacket which shrouded most of his face in darkness, but John had caught the glint of glasses against the moonlight.

The attacker placed his mouth close to John's ears, his breath hot on his neck. John shuddered involuntarily, his body screaming in protest.

"She's mine, do you understand? Stay away from her!" the attacker snarled menacingly.

John was confused. Who the hell was he referring to? Mary? She was the closest thing that he had to a girlfriend - they had gone out on a couple of dates since he met her at his clinic. "Who are…you…talking…about?" John wheezed. He was starting to get a bit lightheaded.

"You know who!" the attacker growled in his deep voice. John was just about to protest that he didn't have a clue when a hard fist made contact with his nose. He heard a crack and something warm started to clog up his nostrils and drip to his lips.

"Jesus!" John cried out in agony. "Are you mental? I don't know who you're talking about!"

Suddenly a loud "Oi!" from the opposite street could be heard. The attacker whipped his head around and saw that a man was jogging towards the alleyway. He shoved roughly against John one last time before dashing off into the night.

John contemplated running after the attacker but knew that he would not be able to catch up. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his nose tenderly and prodding it to check for any signs of a broken bone. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found that everything seemed intact.

"You alright mate?" the helpful passer-by asked.

"Yeah I'm good. Thanks." John was helped up by the passer-by, who was looking at his nose with concern.

"You better get that checked. Looks nasty."

"It's alright, nothing's broken I think. I'll just go home and patch it up."

The passer-by smiled at John kindly and nodded, passing him a piece of tissue to mop up his nose. John clapped a hand on his shoulder and thanked him sincerely before hailing a taxi back to 221B, puzzling over who the attacker was referring to. _Probably a case of mistaken identity, that arse,_ John decided.

He realised halfway through the journey that he had left the milk lying in the alleyway and cursed. The night was turning out to be bad.

* * *

_Molly._

_Molly's dark brown eyes staring at him intensely, pupils fully dilated._

_Her lips curved up into a sweet small as she stepped closer to him._

_He could barely move as her lips lightly brushed against his, her fingers tangling in his hair._

Sherlock started awake at the sound of the front door slamming. He realised that he had unknowingly fallen asleep at the sofa, too tired to make the trip to his bedroom.

And that it was the fourth time he had dreamt of Molly in a week.

Sherlock sighed in frustration. Avoiding her was definitely not helping him contain his feelings towards her at all. If anything, it just made him want to see her more. He cursed inwardly and turned to look at John, who had just entered the flat and was mumbling something incoherent.

It took Sherlock a second to realise that something bad had happened to John. He was rubbing his nose tenderly and had light bloodstains on his shirt sleeve.

"What happened? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, somewhat gently. He was less irritable after his nap and was starting to feel guilty at the chaos he had created in the house for the past 2 weeks.

"Some bloody arse punched me in the face after I dropped Molly off at her house after dinner," John replied, washing the blood from his nose at the kitchen sink. He saw remnants of Sherlock's milk experiment at the table and shut his eyes tightly for a while, afraid to see more.

If Sherlock was surprised at John meeting Molly, he showed no indication of it. "Who was it? Why did he punch you?"

"No idea actually. He just grabbed me when I was walking past an alleyway to get to the main street. He asked me to 'stay away from her' and something along the lines of 'she's mine'. Must be a case of mistaken identity. I have no idea who he was talking about."

Sherlock sat up straighter when he heard those words. It reminded him of someone, just that one person. His mind worked furiously and he kept going back to one thing. _John was with Molly. With Molly._

"Did you see who it was?" he asked quietly.

"Couldn't really see, it was too dark. But he was wearing glasses, that I'm sure of. I – " John broke off mid-sentence, noticing the panic on his friend's face. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock didn't realise when he had stood up, but he was standing now, fissures of panic building within him. John could've sworn that Sherlock's face had gone a few shades paler, if that even possible for someone already as pale as him. All the colour had drained from his face and his eyebrows were burrowed deep as he thought about something.

"Sherlock what's wrong?" John repeated, bewildered by his friend's sudden change in behaviour.

Sherlock ignored him, turning around to grab his coat and scarf, frantically slipping his long arms into his thick Belstaff. Without another glance, Sherlock whipped out of 221B like the wind, leaving John standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely dumbfounded.


	7. Surprises and Insights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock rushes over to Molly's flat in an attempt to save her.

He mustn't panic.

He must not panic.

That was what he kept telling himself after he had flung a bewildered person out of his way, thrown himself into a taxi and directed the driver to Molly's flat.

Fear would most definitely not help in this situation. The most logical thing to do was to wait until he got to Molly's house, assess the situation and think of a way out.

If only it were that easy.

The image of Molly crumpled on the ground, her eyes closed in agony as Richard towered over her with a glint of victory in his eyes scorched a permanent place in Sherlock's mind, latching on like a parasite.

He was certain that it was Richard who had attacked John in the alleyway. He remembered that the revolting man was suffering from myopia, and a bad case of it as well, judging by how thick his lenses were – that explained the glasses that John had saw. Furthermore, he was such a possessive and jealous person that Sherlock was sure he hadn't taken too well to seeing Molly with another man. If he had to guess, Richard had probably been following Molly around too, watching her every move, waiting for the right opportunity to claim her for his own.

How could he have missed that crazed look in Richard's eyes when he had met him?

How could he have thought that Richard would give up easily and leave her alone?

The mere thought of Richard trailing behind Molly for god knows how long made him sick to the stomach and he dug his fingers into his palm to focus. He was dangerously close to giving in to his fear and that was not ideal. Especially not right now.

Anxiety bubbled furiously in him as he ran up the stairs to Molly's flat, his footsteps echoing loudly into the empty silence below. He stopped when he reached her door, pressing his ear to the cool brown wood, expecting to hear something that gave hint to an intruder in the house.

Nothing.

It was completely silent.

The image of Molly lying on the floor flooded into his mind again and without a second thought, he proceeded to pick the lock, succeeding in just a matter of seconds, marvelling at how steady his fingers were. He pushed the door open apprehensively, placing his feet lightly on the ground as he treaded into her house, his eyes scanning her living room, fearing the worst.

But it was empty.

There was no lunatic pressing a knife to Molly's throat.

There was no Molly on the ground with her hair tangled in a mess as she struggled to get out of reach from Richard's abusive hands.

All that was present was her furniture.

Sherlock was about to call out her name when he heard it.

A loud thud that emerged from the bathroom, followed by a sharp yelp, the sound jarring amidst the silence that permeated the flat.

His breath hitched and a shiver ran down his spine as he ran towards the bathroom, not caring about anything as he threw his entire body towards the door to force it open. All his thoughts were focused on getting to Molly and possibly wrapping his fingers around Richard's neck. He winced slightly as he stumbled onto the cold tiled floor, the hard contact of the bathroom door ripping through his shoulder.

The next few seconds were a complete blur.

He registered a high-pitched shriek that made the hair on his back stand. His first thought was that he was too late, Molly was already gravely injured. Why else would she scream like that? The realisation sent a piercing sensation right through his chest.

He desperately tried to focus his eyes on the scene before him but before he could even stand properly, something hard hit the side of his head. Sherlock grunted in pain and attempted to get on his feet once more while rubbing his temple, panic rising within him like a tsunami.

"Sherlock?" a familiar voice suddenly hissed angrily at him.

Wait, why was Molly angry with him? He was here to save her, for heaven's sake.

He shook his head to clear the stars that were clouding his vision and was startled to discover a dripping wet Molly Hooper wrapped in a towel, a shampoo bottle in her raised hand, staring furiously down at him.

Oh.

"What are you doing in my bathroom?" she shrieked, desperately trying to cover her body as well as she could with her towel, which was unfortunately rather thin and small. Sherlock's face reddened slightly when he saw how the fabric clung tightly to her frame, emphasising the curves that he had visualised so often in his embarrassing dreams recently.

He stood up quickly and turned around, giving her a moment of privacy. He couldn't help but feel very stupid. He, the world's only consulting detective, had just burst into someone's bathroom while she was having a bath because he thought that she was at the mercy of some lunatic. His usually sharp and clear mind had been clouded by fear and panic because he cared deeply about the person who was standing in front of him, currently wrapped in a towel and probably wanting to slap him for his untimely intrusion.

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very warm. "I came to check on you," he said with more confidence than he actually felt, trying to appear dignified.

"In my bathroom?!" Molly asked incredulously. She had hastily slipped into her bathrobe and was feeling much less exposed now, although her cheeks were still burning with embarrassment.

"I heard a thud," he replied, refusing to meet her bewildered gaze. "What made the sound?"

"I accidentally slipped when I was getting out of the bathtub," Molly frowned, rubbing her sore knees absently. "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

_She accidentally slipped, you idiot. Oh stupid stupid stupid!_

So her fall had been the blasted sound that he had heard, and he had jumped to the worst possible conclusion in a heartbeat. He had a sudden urge to laugh at his own stupidity.

He looked at Molly and realised that she was waiting for an answer. Yes, why was he here? To save her from Richard, of course. But Richard wasn't here. Not right now anyway. What if the man had only wanted to scare John away from Molly but not actually hurt her? No, that wasn't right. He had met many people like Richard before – the overly obsessive types who hated the people whom they had claimed as their own to interact with others. If those people couldn't belong to them, then no one else could have them as well. It was textbook, really – he had encountered many murders that stemmed from such jealousy. Those cases were usually dull and could be solved in a matter of seconds. So this meant that Richard would definitely find Molly one day, when stalking her alone wouldn't be enough, when looking at her from a distance was too much to handle. One day, he would need to talk to her again, to touch her, to claim her as his own both physically and emotionally. The worst part was that he already knows where she lives. The thought of this made Sherlock uneasy. He needed to get Molly to someplace safe before Richard breaks down and comes to find her.

He made a quick decision.

* * *

Molly stared at Sherlock with an opened mouth. She wasn't sure if she had heard him right. "Come again?"

"I need you to pack your things and come to 221B with me," he repeated, pulling her out of the bathroom and into her bedroom.

"Why?" she asked, completely confused.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls before he started explaining everything to her. About how John was attacked by someone who could only be Richard. About how he was positive that Richard was stalking her and that he was going to want his presence to be known one day, possibly hurting her in the process. "It's irrational for you to move into a hotel room since there is room at Baker Street. You can live with us for the time being, until we stop this man," he said.

Molly stayed silent all throughout Sherlock's explanation. The blood had drained from her face at the mention of Richard and she felt weary. Was this man ever going to leave her alone?

"I knew that someone was stalking me," she told him.

Sherlock's eyes turned alert at her pronouncement. He stared at her in surprise. "What? Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"There wasn't anyone to tell," she answered softly.

A look akin to guilt crossed his face at her words. She saw him avert his eyes to the ground, a small sigh escaping his lips.

"I am sorry, Molly," he said quietly, his voice so full of sincerity that Molly's eyes widened in astonishment. She rarely heard him speak in this soft tone. In fact, she had only heard him like this once – when he had apologised to her during that horrible Christmas party years ago.

"Sorry for what?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.

"For ignoring you for the past 2 weeks," he answered truthfully, straightforward and to the point.

"Why did you ignore me, Sherlock? Did I do something wrong? You should tell me if I did."

He shook his head. "It wasn't you, Molly. I just needed some time to…understand some things," he said mysteriously.

Molly gave him a questioning look, but it seemed like he wasn't going to elaborate further. He walked over to her cupboard, flinging pieces of clothing that she regularly wore onto her bed. "Let's pack."

"Sherlock, won't I be a hindrance at your place? You only have 2 bedrooms and they're already occupied."

"You can take my room." Molly wanted to protest but he cut her off. "I don't sleep much anyway, the sofa will do fine for me," he said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. "Where's your cat carrier?"

Molly was ashamed to admit that she had momentarily forgotten about her male tabby, which she could now hear meowing from the kitchen.

"I can't bring Toby along," she said worriedly.

"Why not?"

"He's a bit neurotic. He can't live in another environment. He once clawed every piece of furniture when I placed him in my friend's flat for a few days. He'll destroy 221B."

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and rolled his eyes, as if expecting this sort of behaviour from her feline.

Molly frowned, feeling defensive. "I got him from the animal shelter. He was abused before so he doesn't do well in new places. It took me months to get him settled here."

She saw his blue eyes softened somewhat when he heard about Toby's past. "We can get one of your neighbours to feed him then."

Molly nodded, deciding that she would entrust Toby to the care of Mrs Freeman, her widowed neighbour who always had a kind word for everyone.

An hour later, after Molly had given Toby a big cuddle (shedding a few tears in the process) and passed her spare set of keys to Mrs Freeman, both Sherlock and she were on their way to Baker Street.

* * *

Molly had just settled herself in Sherlock's bedroom when she heard someone coming up the stairs to 221B.

Curious, she stepped out to take a look and came face to face with Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Both of them had met a few times and she smiled at him in greeting. She saw the surprise on his face when he saw her emerging from Sherlock's bedroom in her pyjamas.

He smiled back before moving over to Sherlock, who was on the sofa with his laptop, passing him a file. "Here you go. Hope you find what you need."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector. I know this isn't your division."

Lestrade's mouth twitched slightly at the mention of his favourite phrase – the one he always used when he wanted to get out of tasks that he didn't really want to do.

"Right, I better get back home now. My wife gets worried if I'm back too late. Night, you two."

"Goodnight," Molly waved to Lestrade as he left the flat. "What's in the file?" she asked, turning to Sherlock.

"Information."

"About?"

"Richard Matthews, if you really want to know."

Molly's interest was piqued. She went to sit by his side, peering at the file as he flipped through the pages, a look of deep concentration etched on his face.

"Hmm, just what I thought," he muttered to himself before turning to face her. "Richard Matthews was married once but his wife divorced him two years ago because his abuse started to escalate after their marriage. She reported him to the authorities and he was jailed for 9 months and diagnosed with Intermittent Explosive Disorder. After his release, he lost his job as an investigative journalist and has been taking up some freelance writing jobs for the past year. The flat you followed him to was not his, it was merely a rental – he hasn't got enough money to have his own house. Just last week, the verdict on his ex-wife's custody battle for his 7 year old son was released. She managed to claim full custody of his child, which was probably the breaking point for him, leading him to start stalking you."

Molly tried to absorb the information as fast as she could. "Wouldn't it be easier to get some officers to his house now to arrest him for harassment of John and me? I know we can't get him on charges of stalking since there's no proof, but John has a badly bruised nose."

Sherlock shook his head. "His credit details show that he had been steadily using up all his money, without much replenishment. Based on my calculations, he was probably evicted from his flat a few days after you went on that date with him. The date with you was his chance at trying to be normal again. He associates you with hope. When you rejected him, he saw it as a denial to let him go back to a normal life. That is why he wants to claim you for his own. He thinks that owning you means that he possesses the chance to rebuild his life again."

"So he could be anywhere now?" Molly asked, her heart sinking.

"Yes. And he's actually quite experienced with the whole stalking thing. Stalked quite a few people in the past for his articles. It wouldn't be that easy to catch him in the act."

Molly sighed, sinking deeper into the sofa. She was fatigued after her long day but she didn't really want to be alone right now. Too many thoughts were running in her head and if she had to admit, she was getting rather frightened.

She glanced at Sherlock, wanting to thank him for helping her, for being such a caring friend. But he was already in his thinking mode, his fingers under his chin and a distant look in his eyes. She smiled fondly at him before grabbing the nearest cushion and clutching it close to her, making herself comfortable. Even though Sherlock wasn't exactly doing anything, his presence was oddly comforting to her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head on the cushion, gradually drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know when Molly had fallen asleep but he found her that way once he had snapped out of his mind palace.

Her long, brown hair had fallen all over her face and her chest was rising and falling gently, in tandem with her breathing. Her lips were parted slightly and Sherlock thought that she looked serene and peaceful. All the tiredness and worry that he saw in her face before had disappeared entirely. He smiled slightly when he saw her move, burying her face deeper into the cushion and mumbling something incoherent.

He shifted closer to her, wanting to study her more closely. He didn't know why he found her sleeping position fascinating, he just did. Experimentally, he tucked a few strands of her hair behind her ear, enjoying the feel of her hair against his fingers.

The odd, fluttery feeling in his stomach that he had felt at her house two weeks ago returned, and he had a sudden urge to experience the feel of her lips on his again. But it was wrong to kiss her now, of course. Not when she was sleeping peacefully and completely unaware.

So he settled on kissing her forehead instead, his lips lingering on her longer than necessary, revelling in the feeling of her skin. He considered carrying her into the bedroom but knew that it would probably just wake her up. She shivered slightly in her sleep and Sherlock went to retrieve his duvet, covering her with it. Without anything else to occupy him for the night, he sat back down beside her and closed his eyes.

He found her presence to be soothing. Usually, his mind moved too fast for him to get any proper rest. But she seemed to be able to calm his racing thoughts enough and for the first time in a long time, Sherlock Holmes fell asleep easily, with Molly Hooper close by.

* * *

Unknown to the consulting detective, John had been watching the whole event from the shadows.

He hadn't meant to spy on them. He had awoken suddenly and wanted to get a glass of water. He was just about to enter the kitchen when he saw Sherlock bending over to kiss Molly's forehead.

Something about the way his lips lingered on her skin made John feel as if it was a very private moment for Sherlock. He retreated back into the darkness, watching his friend curiously.

Sherlock looked different. The snarky and harsh exterior that was often present on his face had disappeared. In its place was a tenderness that John had not seen before.

And just like that, John Watson experienced what many would term an epiphany. All the pieces of the puzzle fitted together perfectly and he knew exactly why Sherlock was being such an arse during the past fortnight.

_He has feelings for Molly. Oh god, he has feelings for Molly. And he doesn't know what to do about them._

* * *

John woke up the next morning with a strong sense of conviction. He was going to have the talk with Sherlock, whether his friend liked it or not.

He went into the living room and saw that Molly had already left for her morning shift at Bart's.

Sherlock was absently plucking at his violin strings, a cup of tea beside him.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Morning," he replied without looking up.

"Molly's at work then?"

"Yes. I called a cab to send her to Bart's."

John sat down beside his friend, taking a deep breath. He was going to have to do this – god knows his friend needed it.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"We need to talk about Molly."

Sherlock's fingers stopped moving and he looked up slowly to stare at John, making John feel slightly uncomfortable. "What about her?"

"Er…I wanted to talk about your…feelings for her."

Sherlock scoffed loudly. "I don't have _feelings_ for her. Don't be absurd, John." He returned to plucking at his violin strings, but John noticed that he was looking a bit uncomfortable.

"Yes you do."

Sherlock shot him a death glare but John was having none of it. "I saw you kissing her yesterday. You, Sherlock! You normally don't do things like that. And you looked so…gentle. So don't deny it."

"I kissed her forehead, not her lips. I believe that's not exactly a testament of my feelings for her. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, John. I do not do feelings. It makes you vulnerable. It is a liability. Always has been and always will be," he replied curtly.

"Really? Love is a liability?" John said angrily, his temper rising. He could not believe this man-child in front of him. Didn't his 'death' teach him anything? "Tell that to the girl who saved your bloody life because she loves you."

Sherlock suddenly became strangely silent. He stopped fiddling with his instrument and looked at the floor.

"You always focus on the disadvantages of love but have you paused to consider the advantages of it as well?" John asked.

"There's nothing wrong with such feelings, Sherlock." John said a little more gently, noticing his friend's discomfort. "It's human you know, to feel such things. And I know that you're capable of love. You pretty much proved that when you stood on the roof of Bart's, willing to jump for all of us."

Sherlock continued to stare at the floor, refusing to look at John. John sighed, deciding that this wasn't exactly going as planned. And he had to be at the clinic for his afternoon shift in an hour. He couldn't sit here and babysit Sherlock while he figured his emotions out. The man was going to have to do it alone.

"I have to go to work now. You think about what I just said." John went into his room to get changed.

Just as he was about to leave the house, John turned back to look at Sherlock, who was still stationary at his spot on the sofa. "She's not going to be here forever you know," he said softly. "One day, she might find a great man and you will lose your opportunity."

And with that, John left for the clinic, fervently hoping that his friend would stop being such a stubborn mule.

* * *

Sherlock continued sitting at the sofa long after John left.

He knew that what he felt for Molly was more than mere physical attraction. The way he had burst into her flat yesterday was proof enough. He hadn't considered anything else. All he knew was that he needed to save her because the thought of her gone was too painful to bear.

But that was exactly what had scared him. He had momentarily lost his sharpness, his ability to deduce, because he had allowed his emotions to control him. In his moment of fear, he did not realise that there was no Richard in her house.

In short, he had been stupid.

Still, he couldn't deny that John's words had some truth to them. Molly had proved to him that love could be an advantage. It was her love for him that led her to help him fake his death. She didn't even consider the fact that she could've lost her job and her doctor title when she had helped him.

He was alive because of her love for him. _Her love for him._

Sherlock groaned, burying his head in his hands. He felt a headache coming. This was really confusing and he didn't want to think about it anymore.

However, his bloody mind had other ideas and chose this moment to replay John's words.

" _She's not going to be here forever you know."_

" _One day, she might find a great man and you will lose your opportunity."_

They were merely words, nothing more.

But somehow, they made his chest ache painfully.


	8. Come Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly settles into life at Baker Street.

If someone had told Molly Hooper one week ago that Sherlock Holmes could appear domestic, she would have laughed in disbelief.

Who in the world was able to imagine the consulting detective, in his expensive dress shirts and specially-tailored trousers, cleaning the house or standing in a kitchen doing something that was not remotely related to his beloved experiments?

And yet that was exactly what he was doing right now, with Molly trying her hardest not to gape at the man.

"Pass the flour, Molly," Sherlock ordered in his usual fashion.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was actually standing in the kitchen with her, attempting to bake some cupcakes.

It had started normal enough, with Molly feeling the sudden urge to bake to relieve the stress that she was feeling. Lestrade had reported that they still hadn't had any luck discovering Richard's whereabouts yet and just yesterday, there had been an unfortunate accident involving a school bus, leading to Molly having to do many children autopsies, something that always left a heavy weight on her chest.

She had walked into 221B eagerly with her ingredients, only to find a sulky Sherlock playing screechy tunes on his violin, claiming that he was 'bored' (no case for three days). Unable to tolerate the cacophony, and feeling sorry for Mrs Hudson, who begged her to stop his nonsense, she had taken it upon herself to force him to bake with her to keep him occupied. It wasn't easy (Molly had to promise him a heart and another head), but here he was.

"Molly! Please concentrate," he scolded, moving behind her to retrieve the flour himself and pouring it into the mixing bowl.

Molly sighed, deciding that this was probably one of the worst ideas she had ever made. Baking was supposed to be her down time but with Sherlock hovering in the kitchen and wanting to dominate as usual, it was difficult to feel relaxed. She wondered if his violin playing would have been easier to handle.

"Sorry, it's just that –"

"You've never seen me bake before," Sherlock finished for her.

"Well…yes."

"I used to bake when I was a child. Mummy didn't allow Mycroft and me to have sweet things and since the bakeries around our house were dreadful, we took it upon ourselves to bake whenever our mother was out," Sherlock said, a small smile on his lips.

"Mycroft and you used to bake?" Molly giggled. She couldn't believe the two brothers doing something more unlike themselves. She had met Mycroft a few times during Sherlock's 'death' and he didn't look like the type to step into the kitchen either. He was all suits and diplomacy.

She looked at Sherlock, deciding that she really loved this side of him. He was much less guarded, more relaxed, and it was extremely endearing. She knew that he had this side to him – he was human after all and he couldn't be so reserved all the time. But it wasn't a side of him that he allowed just anybody to see. She couldn't stop the fluttery feeling in her stomach when she saw him surrounded by all these baking things, his eyes bright and happy.

"It's just applied chemistry," Sherlock shrugged. "Stop staring at me like that and do something useful."

"Yes, sorry," Molly said sheepishly, not realising that she was staring a bit too long than was considered appropriate.

She went to weigh the butter and sugar while Sherlock busied himself with melting the chocolate. They worked in relative silence, just like they do in the lab. Both never admitted it, but the fact was that they were wonderful partners. They had a special rhythm between them, a natural and easy flow when they were working together. It was one of the reasons Sherlock kept requesting for Molly's help when he first met her. Working with her was one of the few times when he felt like he could somehow connect with someone.

"What's your favourite sweet or pastry?" Molly suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

Sherlock looked up at her with a slightly surprised look, as if he couldn't quite believe that someone would care about that part of him. "Lemon cake, but I've outgrown my sweet tooth," he smiled. "Mycroft didn't of course. Anyone can deduce that from his size."

"Sherlock! Don't be mean!"

Sherlock just smirked before starting to mix all the ingredients in the mixing bowl, folding them until they reached a smooth consistency. Molly lined the muffin trays with cupcake liners while he expertly scooped the mixture into them. She couldn't stop herself from staring at his long, slim fingers as he worked – they were absolutely enchanting. She sneaked a glance at him and with a start, realised that he was staring at her.

It suddenly occurred to her that he was acting a little strange during the past week that she had been at Baker Street. She would often catch him staring at her at the most random moments.

Initially, she thought that she was doing something odd that might seem normal to her (the consequence of living alone for too long with only a cat for company). But she would find him looking at her when she was reading or when she was watching the telly – surely she couldn't be doing anything weird then?

And the stare…it was different from his usual stares. It was intense, and she would unconsciously hold her breath whenever she caught him looking. He had a way of looking at her that made her want to squirm. It was as if he was staring right into her heart and mind, seeing everything, knowing everything. Molly always felt naked when he did that.

However, the most confusing part wasn't the intensity of his gaze. It was something peculiar that she couldn't quite identify. Sometimes, it seemed like he was looking at her with affection and just a hint (barely) of…lust.

But no sooner had the thoughts entered her head did she force them out. Sherlock Holmes was married to his work – that was what he had repeatedly told everyone around him. He never bothered with relationships and from what she had observed, he seemed to be asexual, if that was even possible for humans.

"What?" she mumbled, feeling her cheeks flush under his gaze.

"Nothing," he replied, turning to place the trays into the oven, his impassive mask returning once more.

They went into the living room to wait for the cupcakes to finish baking. Molly curled her legs under her chin on the sofa, feeling more relaxed than she had a few days ago. She saw Sherlock picking up his violin and for a moment, she thought that he was bored again and was going to torment her with his screechy tunes. She mentally prepared herself.

But he surprised her.

As his delicate fingers drew the bow across the violin strings elegantly, a mellow and beautiful sound flowed from the instrument, permeating the room. The music surrounded her and embraced her, lifting her spirits. She closed her eyes and allowed the melody to fill every fibre of her being.

 _Vivaldi,_ she thought.

It came as a surprise to many people, but Molly did know quite a bit about classical music. Her father was an ardent fan and she grew up listening to many pieces. She couldn't play an instrument but she could definitely appreciate a good musician. It was one of the things that made her fall for Sherlock in the first place. When she had discovered that he played the violin, she just hopelessly fell in love with him a little more.

But she never knew that he could play so beautifully. She never got the chance to listen to him before.

Suddenly, the alarm on the oven rang, jolting them both. Molly went into the kitchen to retrieve the cupcakes, bringing them to the living room and planning to ignore all the information she knew about healthy eating. For some reason, she was feeling extremely happy and was going to indulge herself. Sherlock laid his instrument on a chair and settled beside her on the sofa, taking a cupcake.

"I didn't know that you could play the violin so well," Molly smiled. "I've only ever heard people complaining about it."

Sherlock smirked, obviously proud of the compliment. "My musical abilities are more than satisfactory, Molly. I just choose not to display them often. I have been playing the violin since I was four. A long enough time to develop my skill sufficiently, don't you think?"

"Bragging now are we?" Molly teased.

"Unlike most people, I actually have something to brag about," he said smugly.

Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. She looked at him and became aware of the fact that some chocolate had stained the side of his lips. She was reminded of John's eating habits and couldn't stop the giggle that escaped her.

"What?" Sherlock asked her, thoroughly confused.

"Do John and you share the same dining habits? Because you two seem to have a tendency to eat messy."

She didn't know what possessed her to do it. Perhaps it was the fact that she was feeling so comfortable and relaxed in his presence, something that was inconceivable two years ago. Or maybe the chocolate was causing her brain to release more dopamine than usual, making her happier and braver.

Molly leaned towards Sherlock and gently used her thumb to rub the chocolate away. She saw his eyes widened at her touch and she instinctively froze.

_Bollocks. Did I just do that?_

"I'm sorry…I…it won't happen again," she stammered, quickly withdrawing her hand and placing it firmly on her lap, not daring to look at him, afraid that he was going to be annoyed at the intimacy.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's fine." His voice was oddly husky and Molly could've sworn that it was lower than his usual baritone.

She shot him a glance and saw that look again.

That peculiar one that made her feel as if her heart could stop. That one look that seemed like a weird combination of affection and lust, something that she never dreamt he would feel, especially not towards her.

Sherlock frowned, as if deep in thought. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes before making his way into his bedroom and closing the door.

Molly sat on the sofa and watched his retreating figure, inwardly cursing herself for losing control of her affection for him in that split second. Sighing, she leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes.

She always seemed to do something wrong.

* * *

It was close to 10 at night when the inhabitants of 221B heard a pair of measured footsteps coming up the staircase.

"Evening," Mycroft Holmes greeted them and entered, not bothering that they hadn't invited him in.

Both Molly and John started, turning their attention from the telly to stare at him. He was one of the last people they expected to see on a normal, cold night in London.

"You're here for Sherlock?" John asked, recovering first. He was a lot more comfortable with Mycroft than Molly was. Even though she had met the man a few times, she didn't feel all that relaxed around him. Something about the way he presented himself made her feel as if she needed to sit straighter, to speak clearer, when he was around. And then there was the fact that he had "kidnapped" her before, demanding to know what she knew about Sherlock's 'death', while they were standing at some abandoned industrial site.

"Yes. Do you mind?" Mycroft said before settling himself on a chair.

John went to knock on Sherlock's bedroom door. He had remained there since the incident with Molly in the afternoon. "Sherlock? Your brother's here," John said, rapping his knuckles lightly on the wooden door.

They heard him grumbling loudly before he opened the door, a disgruntled look on his face.

"To what do I owe the _pleasure_?" he glared at his brother, a snarky look on his face.

"A case," Mycroft replied simply. "A case that is of utmost importance to the British government."

"Of course," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mycroft ignored his brother's lack of manners. He took a file out from his briefcase, a solemn look plastered on his face.

"This just happened, so I expect that no one has heard of it yet," Mycroft started explaining. "Fifteen members of parliament were at a covert meeting at a mansion in Cardiff just this morning, expecting to return home by tonight. However, during the afternoon, ten of those men were found dead together in a room on the top floor. The door was locked from the inside and there was only one window, which was bolted from the inside as well. The local police was unable to find any fingerprints and the floor was completely wet, washing away all traces of blood and the like. I need you on this case before it turns into a national disaster. I have ordered the other five men to be held in custody in Cardiff until further notice."

Sherlock scoffed. "National disaster? From what I see, only the government officials were targeted. No one else in Britain seems to be in any danger. Hardly a national disaster, brother." But everyone saw the excited glint in his eyes. It was certainly an interesting case.

"Will you take the case?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock made an act of pondering over his decision, complaining about leaving his other cases behind. Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows slightly at this. Molly could see that he didn't believe his younger brother claims of having more important things to attend to.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said warningly. "If you don't accept this case I do not know what may happen to your…allowance."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Always with that threat. It gets old, you know." But he held out his hand to take the file from his brother, curiously flipping through the pages, a hungry look in his eyes.

"I take it that you accept the case then," Mycroft said. "You will leave immediately. I cannot afford for this to be dragged on any longer before the press gets hold of it."

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback. He didn't expect to leave immediately – it must be extremely important for his brother to just pull him away like that.

"Oh don't look so shocked Sherlock. I know you and Dr Watson always have a bag packed just for cases outside of England. Your transport will arrive in ten minutes to send you and John to the airport."

"Wait…I'm going too?" John asked incredulously.

"Of course. This concerns members of the British government. I cannot let my brother go alone and disgrace my name with his manners."

Sherlock scowled at his brother, who just smiled calmly back at him.

"But…But I have work!" John cried.

"I have already cleared you for a week. That is probably the time you would take to solve this case. Now, if I were you two, I would go get packed."

Sherlock immediately whisked into his room to pack, the prospect of a case making him energetic again. John stared at the older Holmes with an open mouth for a while before going into his room, shaking his head. Not wanting to be left in the living room alone with Mycroft, Molly hurried after Sherlock, standing by the bedroom door while she watched him throw some things into his already full bag.

She couldn't control the sadness that she was feeling. She had only stayed at Baker Street for a week, but she was getting used to the company of Sherlock and John. She had to admit that it was much nicer to come back to a house that actually had other human beings. Together, they had formed some kind of unique (albeit odd) family. Now that they were going to be gone for about a week, she started to feel the loneliness creeping back.

The two men were done packing in just five minutes, ready to go as a black car drove up and parked outside of 221B. Sherlock was about to descend the stairs when he heard John saying goodbye to Molly.

He stopped in his tracks, realising that in the midst of all his excitement about the case, he had actually forgotten about her. An unpleasant feeling started to settle in his stomach and he decided that it was guilt.

He turned back and strode into the flat, pausing just in front of Molly, who gave him a small smile.

"Goodbye, Molly."

"Bye, Sherlock. It's awful that ten people are dead, but since it's you, I'll just say have fun."

Sherlock felt his lips curving into a grin when he heard those words – she did know him. Then, much to the surprise of everyone in the flat (especially Molly), he pulled her into a hug, his arms tightening around her.

She saw John's jaw drop, obviously surprised at his friend's outward show of affection. Mycroft merely quirked an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed. But she saw his gaze linger on her, as if trying to unravel the puzzle of what she meant to his younger brother.

Molly wasn't faring any better herself – her pulse was racing and she had to warn herself to calm down and breathe. The heat she felt emanating from his body certainly wasn't helping her condition.

"I would close my mouth if I were you, John," Sherlock said.

John closed his mouth hastily, slightly embarrassed that his friend was able to correctly guess what he was doing even though his back was to him.

Sherlock pulled away from Molly and gave her a quick smile before walking back towards the stairs, with John and Mycroft following behind him. But he turned around again at the last minute, fixing her with a serious expression. "Molly, be careful. Richard is still out there." Molly nodded and with that, he went down the stairs quickly, ready to tackle a new case.

Molly went to the window and watched Sherlock and John get into their black car while Mycroft got into his own. John waved a goodbye to Molly as he stepped into the vehicle.

And then they were gone, leaving Molly standing by the window, feeling very alone for the first time in one week.

* * *

Molly took a sip of her coffee as she continued to type out an autopsy report, rubbing her eyes once in a while to stay awake.

It had been four days since Sherlock and John left for Cardiff, and Molly was channelling most of her energy into her work to help pass the time. She had been bored for the past few days and was itching for a bit of news from Cardiff. She would've checked John's blog for some information, but since this was a covert case, John could not write anything except _'Off on a case in Cardiff'_.

Her handphone suddenly rang, breaking the silence in the lab and causing her to jump. She reached into her bag with a frown, wondering who it might be.

"Hello?"

"Molly, dear! It's Mrs Freeman!" Her voice was frantic and shaky.

"Hi, Mrs Freeman. What is it? Are you ok?"

"It's…it's…Toby! He's not moving and he's…he's just lying on the floor." Mrs Freeman cried, sounding very flustered.

Molly felt her heart drop and she forced herself to stay calm. Panicking would not help her cat at all. "Is he breathing?"

"I think so," she sobbed. "Please do something, Molly!"

"It's alright, Mrs Freeman. I'm coming over right now!" Molly grabbed her bag and dashed out of the Bart's, not caring about anything else except the well-being of Toby.

 _Please don't let anything happen to him,_ she silently begged. _Please._

She ran up the stairs to her flat quickly, the fear she was trying so hard to suppress threatening to overwhelm her. She fumbled with her keys when she reached her door and shook her head to force her body to stay calm. Finally ( _finally_ ), she managed to insert the key into the lock and she pushed open the door frantically, casting her gaze around the flat, her brown eyes large with panic.

"Mrs Freeman?" she called out.

Molly just had a split second to notice the clump of light brown hair that closed in on her from the corner as she felt the sharp end of a needle prick the skin on her upper arm. Her vision blurred rapidly and her legs became numb. She gave in to her fear and tried to shout out as she fell to the floor with a loud thud.

Molly thought she heard a soft, malicious chuckle as she descended into a sea of darkness, not remembering anything else.


	9. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is held captive by Richard.

Molly awoke to a strange feeling of dizziness, her head heavy and spinning, a wave of nausea rippling through her. Her stomach was churning unendingly and her entire body was oddly numb. Her legs felt heavy and try as she might, she couldn't feel her fingers or toes. Panicking, she attempted to lift her fingers, only to be met with an invisible resistance.

She felt a sharp sensation around her upper body and her cloudy mind processed that her arms were hurting. Bloody hurting. She opened her heavy-lidded eyes to make sense of this mystery, only to become cognisant of the fact that her arms were not in front of her like they should be. In fact, she couldn't see them at all.

Frowning, she forced her eyes to open more and to her horror, discovered that her arms were behind her back, apparently bounded to a chair. Her eyes darted frantically to her sides and she realised that she was sitting on one of her kitchen chairs, right in the middle of her living room. She attempted to move her head to inspect further and a small painful moan escaped her lips.

"Oh hello, sweetheart. Glad you're finally awake," a soft voice drifted from in front of her.

Her eyes snapped upwards and a burly figure came into her line of vision, a sickly sweet smile plastered on his face. A strangled cry rose from her throat when she realised who it was. Her mind was screaming for her to run but her body was heavy and unyielding. The only thing she managed to do was turn her head, avoiding his predatory gaze. The last few moments before she passed out came tumbling back to her in a flash.

The feel of a needle breaking her skin.

Losing control of her body.

Her vision blurring.

Slipping into unconsciousness.

The frantic phone call from Mrs Freeman about Toby.

_Oh god. Mrs Freeman and Toby._

"W-Where's Mrs…Mrs Freeman?" she mumbled, finding it difficult to move her lips.

"Don't worry about her. She's in your room. I gave her double the dose of ketamine I gave you. She won't be bothering us for a while. And your cat's just passed out," he smiled at her fondly. "I think."

Molly felt her chest tighten in fear when she heard those words.

_Mrs Freeman is not dead. Yet. Not dead yet. Toby is… I don't know. Oh Toby._

_Ketamine. Date rape drug. Side effects may include dizziness, blurred vision, nausea, hallucinations, delirium –_

Her thought process was rudely cut off when she saw Richard removing a knife from his pocket, a delirious glint in his dark eyes, like a snake that was ready to pounce on its prey.

He brought the knife close to her face for her to see it, for her to understand the danger that she was in, the helplessness of her situation. "I trust you know who's in charge here. One sound from you, just one sound, and I will scar your pretty little face," he whispered.

Molly felt the nausea threatening to rise up her throat and she struggled to keep it down. "What do…do… you… w-want?" she choked out.

Richard laughed mirthlessly. "Isn't it obvious?" He leaned in closer to her, his mouth hovering near her ear. "You."

Molly couldn't stop the involuntary shiver. His breath was hot on her neck and it made her grimace.

Richard stepped back to look at her. He saw the fear and repulsion in her eyes, and the grimace on her face. Without warning, he lifted his hand and slapped her hard on her cheek. The chair swayed slightly before settling down on all fours again.

Molly gasped in shock and pain. It felt like someone had just pressed something hot on her face. She wanted to cup her cheek to alleviate the pain but was unable to.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he shouted at her. "Why?! I thought you were different! But you're just like my wife!"

He moved closer to her, a look of conviction on his face. "I made a mistake with my wife. I let her leave. And she took my son with her! My son! But no matter. I won't repeat my mistake," he grinned, sending shivers down Molly's spine.

"W-What?" she stammered.

"Oh, sweetheart. Don't look so terrified." He ran the length of the knife along the side of her jaw, making her shiver again. "You might even enjoy it, you know," he murmured, trailing kisses down the side of her face. Molly felt goose bumps forming on her skin and she desperately wanted to kick him away.

She felt him slowly unbuttoning her blouse, tracing shapes on her stomach with his knife. Slowly, he moved the knife upwards and started to trace the outline of her breasts. Molly couldn't stop the whimper that rose from her throat. She was starting to shake in her seat.

_Oh god, no. Please no._

Richard stopped his actions when he heard her cry. He looked at her with a blank expression in his eyes, as if he was detached from the situation. He cocked his head sideways, studying her shaking form while she looked at anywhere else but him.

All of a sudden, he brought the knife right to her throat, pressing it against her skin, just enough to hurt but not enough to draw blood. Molly took a sharp intake of breath in alarm.

"Shut up," he growled. "Shut up. Or I will spill your fucking blood. **DO YOU UNDERSTAND?** " he suddenly roared.

Molly jumped in fright. "Please don't!" she sobbed, unable to control her tears anymore, giving in to her fear.

"Don't?! Don't?! There's no other way, don't you see? Jesus, I thought that pathologists were supposed to be intelligent." He pressed the knife harder to her throat, and she felt her skin splitting under the pressure. A sharp pain erupted from where his knife touched her and she grimaced in pain yet again.

"Stop that look!" Richard shouted. He raised his hand and in one swift motion, threw a punch to her now exposed stomach, causing her upper body to shift forward due to the impact. He then delivered a searing slap to her left cheek.

"Stop it," he breathed heavily. "Stop."

Molly quickly complied. She hastily rearranged her features to one of normalcy while controlling her agony. She knew that she had to humour him or she'd be done for. He could easily kill her if she did something to set him off. The bloody tricking down her neck was a testament to that.

"Good," he smiled again, making her stomach turn. He shifted closer to her and got on his knees. He was now eye level with her. He put his hands on her thighs and looked her in the eye. Every fibre in Molly's being was screaming for her to jerk away from his touch.

But she remained still, knowing that any movement was going to result in another action of violence from him. He slowly ran his hands along the insides of her thighs while she desperately tried not to shiver. He leaned in and kissed her on the side of her neck. "I have to do this, don't you see?" he murmured against her skin. "Since you don't want me, I have to make sure that no one else wants you too. Then we can be together, my Molly."

Molly pressed her eyes shut, trying her hardest to breathe steadily. He started to unzip her jeans and she gave in slightly to her fear then, pressing her body as hard as she could to the back of the chair. She felt a whimper rising from her throat and swallowed hard to stop it from escaping her lips.

He finally undid her zip and he slipped his hand under her knickers. Tears started to spill out of her eyes, but Richard didn't notice. "I doubt your handsome consulting detective will want you after this, don't you think?"

An idea suddenly occurred to Molly. "He'll come you know," she said, marvelling at how steady her voice was despite her wish to just collapse on the ground and cry. "He knows I'm here."

Richard looked up at her with amusement dancing in his eyes. She knew then that she didn't fool him.

"No he doesn't. I've check the blog his stupid friend manages. Off to Cardiff, remember?" he chuckled. "I was an investigative journalist you know. You think I can't find out something as easy as that?"

His eyes darkened abruptly and his mood changed once more. He removed his hands from under her knickers and proceeded to grab the hair at the nape of her neck, yanking hard. Molly let out a surprised yelp and hastened to press her lips together to stay silent.

"Didn't have to be like this, Molly," he said, looking pained. "We could've been happy. But then I must see **SHERLOCK HOLMES**! The way you looked at him! The way he looked at you! It's like you two belong to each other! Makes me sick!" he spat. "I hate him. Men like him, thinking that they're better than everybody else! You're happy that he's your boyfriend, aren't you?"

Molly shook her head, whimpering again. "He's not my boyfriend."

Richard quirked his eyebrows. "No? Well, I think he wants to be. We can't have that now, can we?" he smirked maliciously, moving closer to her. He pressed himself between her legs and she could feel his erection against her. It took all she had to not lean aside and retch. Her breathing became heavier and she started to feel dizzy again.

 _NO. God no,_ she pleaded silently.

Without warning, Richard stood up and smashed his lips to hers, his hands cupping her breasts. Molly pressed her lips tightly together and shut her eyes. She tried to imagine that she was someplace else - anywhere but here. She felt Richard bite down hard on her lips and she gasped in pain. He took the opportunity to shove his tongue into her open mouth and she started to shake again. When his hands roamed down her stomach and slipped down her knickers again, she gave in to her tears. But he seemed too preoccupied to notice them.

She desperately needed to get his hands out of her knickers. She was so revolted and repulsed that she felt actual bile at the back of her throat. She racked her brain for an idea and a thought came to her. She wondered if it might work but since she didn't have other alternatives, it was worth a try.

Hesitatingly, Molly started to kiss Richard back, cringing inwardly the whole time. She felt him returning her kiss eagerly and his grip on her started to loosen. He removed his hands from under her knickers ( _oh thank goodness_ ) and cupped the side of her face.

She took the opportunity to shift as far back as she could on her chair before summoning all the energy she possessed to her legs. With one jerk backwards, she swung her legs in front of her and kicked him right in his groin as hard as she could.

Richard doubled over in pain and groaned loudly, collapsing to the ground. She would pay for that, she was sure. But right now, she couldn't care less what happened to her. She just needed Richard as far away from her as possible. She didn't want to feel his skin on hers.

Richard recovered soon enough and stood up with a murderous look on his face. Molly shrank back in fear – she was going to pay now.

He lunged towards her, causing her chair to fall backwards to the ground, crushing her bounded arms underneath the combined weight of Richard and her.

Molly cried out in agony, her face distorted in pain. She thought she heard a crack. Maybe it was her wrists. She didn't know. All she knew was the searing and sharp pain that was running down both her arms, refusing to subside.

He lifted the chair upright again before slapping her. She was sure there was a permanent red mark on her skin now. He reached behind to untie her bonds. She attempted to struggle free from his iron grip but he held on, too strong for her drugged body to fight against. He grabbed her by her hair and flung her to the wall, pinning her hard against it.

"No!" she screamed. He clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries and she bit him.

"Fuck!" he shouted in pain. He punched her stomach before slamming her against the wall again, like a rag doll. Her head hit the hard surface and she felt a dull ache permeate through her head and neck. Her vision started to blur again and she knew that she was going to die now – she was sure of it.

She closed her eyes and thought about Sherlock, wondering what he was doing now. Maybe he had a new lead in Cardiff. She hoped he did. That would make him happy. She remembered his blue eyes and his boyish grin and felt some warmth fill her body again. She fervently wished that he wouldn't see her dead and mangled body when he came back. She was certain that Richard was going to do something horrible to her after raping and killing her. He would make no one else want her, even in death.

Her head was spinning but she could still feel Richard pressed against her. She made a feeble attempt to shout again, but stopped when something sharp pierced into her stomach. She moaned in pain, feeling her warm blood gushing out from her mid-section.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang and she collapsed to the ground, Richard's hands no longer holding her up. She heard him crying out in pain. She thought she heard some footsteps running into her house, but she couldn't be sure.

She curled her body into a foetal position, trying to relieve the pain that was present in every inch of her body. Her eyelids were drooping and she wanted nothing more than to sleep. She needed to sleep, there was no way she was going to stay awake anymore. She thought she heard someone calling "Miss Hooper", but the voice sounded like it came from far away.

_Wait. I know that voice…I know…know…need to sleep…sleep…_

Her broken body registered a pair of hands lifting her up gently. The movement caused her pain and she groaned again, tears flowing freely down her stinging cheeks.

Giving up, Molly closed her eyes and succumbed to the darkness once more.

* * *

John started at the sound of his handphone ringing. He fished it out of his pocket irritably, annoyed that someone had disturbed his precious nap time. Sherlock was working at one of the labs that Mycroft had helped him gain access to and John was taking the opportunity to sleep at a corner. The whole situation reminded him of Bart's.

He frowned when he saw the number on his screen. "Hello?" he answered.

John listened to the speaker without talking, his face getting paler the whole time. He reminded himself to breathe when he heard the news. Finally, the speaker hung up.

John walked over to Sherlock tentatively, not knowing how to approach the subject. "Sherlock?"

As expected, he was ignored. "Sherlock!" John's voice was more urgent now, a tone of desperation evident.

"Hmm?" Sherlock spun around on his lab stool with his eyebrows raised.

John swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"I'm busy. Do be quick," Sherlock said irritably. "Why is your face so pale? It's gone two shades whiter."

"Sherlock, something happened to Molly."

* * *

Sherlock stared at the injured figure lying on the hospital bed, the blood pounding furiously in his ears. John stood beside him, his face grave and sad.

"I can't believe he tried to do that," John mumbled, reaching out to clasp Molly's hand. "Poor Molly."

Sherlock didn't reply. He just continued staring at her unconscious form, taking in everything. Her left arm was broken, there were purple bruises on her face and arms, a wound on her neck and a stab wound on her stomach. The nurses had already cleaned her face, but he could still see some traces of her tears. She was breathing, but it was slow and light, as if it hurt her to breathe normally.

Sherlock felt the fury bubbling in him and was unable to tolerate it anymore. He walked out of the hospital room and bumped into Mycroft, who was standing outside, apparently waiting for him. John followed Sherlock hastily, afraid that he was going to do something stupid.

The two brothers stared at each other for a while, neither of them speaking. Then, with a small nod of his head, Mycroft beckoned for Sherlock to follow him. John walked behind them, intending to follow as well, but Sherlock stopped him.

"No. Stay with her," he said.

"Ok…but where are you going?"

"Somewhere. It's best if you don't come."

And with that, Sherlock and Mycroft were off, leaving John behind with an open mouth.

* * *


	10. Mending the Damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a meeting with Richard and Molly wakes up.

The room was cold and dark safe for a small stream of light that filtered in from a solitary window. In the middle of the room were two men. One was leaning comfortably against the paint-peeled wall, his expression oddly blank and calm. The other was tied to a chair, his arms bounded tightly to prevent any means of escape.

They did not speak to each other for a long time. The lean, dark one by the wall stared hard at the burly one with the light brown hair, repulsion etched deeply on every inch of his pale face.

Finally, when the silence started to weigh down heavily upon them, the lean man strode towards the burly one.

"Why?" he snarled, his deep baritone dripping with venom.

The burly man didn't dare to look him in the eyes – icy blue eyes that screamed murder. "I just…I just…wanted her."

"So you tried to _**RAPE**_ her?!" Sherlock shouted, unable to contain the anger that was burgeoning within him at an alarming rate.

"It'll stop anyone else from wanting her. Stop _you_ from wanting her," the other man muttered, his hands shaking slightly from the tone of Sherlock's voice. There was something about him that made Richard both fear and respect him.

Sherlock clenched his fist tightly and threw a calculated punch to Richard's jaw, pleased when he heard the satisfying crunch echo loudly around the room.

Richard's head snapped sideways and he gasped loudly at the force of the punch. He spat out some blood before focusing his gaze on Sherlock again. He gave him a smile, his eyes carefully blank. "Oh especially you. Did you see the way she looks at you? No one looks at me like that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "I can't imagine why not."

"I hate you," Richard spat.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Richard's eyes flashed angrily and he glared at Sherlock. He looked at him with narrowed eyes and suddenly laughed, the sound incongruous and piercing amidst the emptiness in the room. "I won, you know? She was so pure but she's going to be damaged now. She might _break_. No one will want her. I own her. You -"

A strong punch to the side of his head silenced him and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself.

Sherlock leaned in towards Richard, their faces merely a few inches away. He could feel the heat emanating from Richard's body and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to not lunge forward and break his thick neck (he would've done that if Mycroft wasn't waiting outside after warning him about no killing, to which Sherlock had grudgingly agreed to). "I trust you know what I do, Richard."

Richard just cocked his head sideways, an innocent look plastered on his bruised face. Sherlock was tempted to hit him again but controlled himself. _Not yet._ "I pick up the scattered pieces of a case and put them back together, making it whole again. I'll do the same with her if the need arises."

"No you won't," Richard laughed hoarsely, resulting in yet another punch. This time, it was so hard that his jaw dislocated and one of his teeth fell out. Blood poured out from his mouth freely. He whimpered like a wounded animal.

"I rarely fail, Richard. I can't believe that you have so little confidence in my skills. I did jump off a building and survive, you know," Sherlock smirked mockingly.

He watched with an impassive mask as the madman struggled with the agony of his injured jaw. "There's one thing you don't know about her."

"Oh? W-What's… that?" Richard wheezed.

"She's incredibly strong. Don't let her size fool you. She won't _'break'_ , as you called it."

Richard rolled his eyes dramatically, imitating Sherlock's previous action. The detective hit him expertly on the chest, directly on a vital muscle, causing all the air to escape from his lungs. Richard grimaced and groaned loudly, leaning forward as far as his bonds allowed him to, desperately trying to alleviate the pain.

"By the way, I have a special thing I absolutely love to do in these situations. Are you interested to see?" Sherlock's voice was dangerously quiet and smooth.

Richard tried breathing deeply for a few moments before replying, the impact of the punch making him half-unconscious. "No."

"Pity. It would've been much easier for you if you were interested. It's not exactly a choice, you see."

Sherlock saw the man's eyes widen in pure fear and felt somewhat satisfied. He walked over slowly to Richard and released his bonds, all the while maintaining an iron grip on him. He then dragged him to the window, tilting him backwards slightly. Richard trashed around, desperately trying to free himself. But Sherlock was too strong for him in his half-conscious state.

"Let me give you a piece of advice, Richard Matthews. This is the third storey so I'll try not to move so much later if I were you. Your broken ribcage might accidentally puncture your lung," Sherlock breathed into his ear menacingly.

"No…" Richard whispered, his voice strangled and pleading.

"No? Why not, Richard? An eye for an eye, isn't that what people say? You hurt Molly. So it's only fair that someone hurts you back."

He was glad to see the horror in Richard's eyes and flashed him one last smirk. With a strong heave, he lifted Richard and pushed him out of the open window, his face betraying none of his anger and repulsion as he heard the loud thud that drifted from the ground when Richard's body made contact with the concrete. He watched calmly as one of Mycroft's men came forward to retrieve the broken body.

Sherlock stood by the window for a few minutes after, trying hard not to think about the fact that his arms were shaking slightly from the mercilessness of his actions, or about what might happen if Richard was indeed right about Molly.

* * *

Mycroft handed Sherlock a cigarette while casually leaning against the door of the room, seemingly unperturbed by what had just passed.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, gladly accepting the cigarette, his body screaming for some nicotine. He studied his brother's expression and saw that he didn't disapprove of his actions towards Richard, who would probably be taken into custody once he recovered from the fall (or rather, drop).

"It's just a cigarette."

"No. For letting me do this. And for helping Molly."

"You have feelings for her," Mycroft said, his tone matter-of-fact.

Sherlock remained silent, not meeting his brother's eyes. He didn't know if he wanted Mycroft to know about this. It was extremely personal and the two of them had not been particularly close for years. They did care about each other in their own way (they were brothers after all), but their relationship did not progress further than that. Neither would have wanted to spend time with the other if they could help it.

Mycroft sighed. "You don't have to lie to me. I recognised that look on your face when you hugged her. I've seen it before. It was what made me increase my surveillance on her. I ordered my people to check on her cameras more often. There was one installed outside her flat. That was how I knew he had entered her house, although I came about that information a little later than I would've liked."

"You have surveillance on her?"

"Naturally. I have surveillance on every single person who is a part of your life. Hers started after the fall. Surely you know this by now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He just stared at the ground and blew out a puff of smoke slowly, revelling in the familiar comfort that the nicotine gave him.

The silence between them stretched on and finally, Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette and faced his brother.

"I will hurt her, Mycroft," he said quietly.

"Yes you will," he agreed. "But she thinks that you can make her happy too."

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. Mycroft quirked his eyebrows at his brother's reaction. "No? Can't you see it? Don't be a fool, Sherlock."

"She will be a distraction to my work."

"Oh please. You were perfectly fine in Cardiff. But you were a complete mess for two weeks when you tried to avoid her. Don't think I didn't know about that."

Sherlock scowled at his brother. How did he always manage to know about everything? "I've seen how couples act. I can't do that. I can't be a normal… _boyfriend_." He said the last word disdainfully, hating it with a vengeance.

"Learn then. Aren't you always bragging about how quick you learn things? And who are you to assume that Miss Hooper wants normal?"

Sherlock frowned, deeply confused. This wasn't what he was expecting from Mycroft. "I thought you actively discouraged relationships. Caring is not an advantage, remember?" he quoted his brother.

"Yes, I certainly don't encourage them. But I'm also wise enough to know that there are always exceptions in life. And that's what she has always been, hasn't she?"

"What?"

"An exception, of course. _Your_ exception. "

His words surprised Sherlock. He never thought about Molly this way before but if he bothered to take notice, she was indeed an exception. She was the one who made him feel things he never felt before, the one who helped him when no one else could, the one who always secretly amazed him with her strength and compassion.

_And her love._

Sherlock sighed inwardly, knowing that he couldn't run away from this matter anymore. He had come so close to losing her and it had terrified him beyond anything else. Jumping off Bart's couldn't even compare to what he felt when he saw her limp body on the hospital bed. He wanted her beside him; he wanted to be the one to protect her. It was a new feeling (he was getting a lot of them over the past few weeks) and he was puzzled that it didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. Maybe he was slowly getting used to this whole affair with emotions after all.

He suddenly remembered something. "You said that you've seen that look on my face when I hugged her before. Where did you see it?"

"On my own face."

Sherlock started. He never knew that his brother harboured feelings for anyone before. He couldn't, could he? He was the one who always told him not to give in to sentiment. He was the one who taught him that when they were children.

"Who?" he asked quietly.

"Ian Bellen," Mycroft said, smiling sadly in a rare display of emotion.

Sherlock felt an unpleasant sensation churning deep in his stomach.

He knew that name.

Ian Bellen used to come over to their house when Mycroft was a teenager. He observed that they were close but he had always thought that they were just friends (Mycroft had always been good at keeping secrets). Bellen got into a car accident and passed away just before Mycroft went off to university. Back then, Sherlock had found his brother turning more quiet and solemn as the days went by. He had always thought that Mycroft was mourning the passing of a friend. He never knew that it was more than that.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He just looked at his brother, both of them communicating without words. He saw that Mycroft didn't want his pity – it happened long ago and it should stay in the past. His brother would definitely get angry if he brought it up now.

Mycroft saw that Sherlock understood and nodded. "I still need you on the Cardiff case," he said, wanting to change the topic to something more familiar to the both of them.

"When?"

"Once Miss Hooper regains consciousness and is well enough to be by herself. The police can busy themselves with what you have found out for the time being. She doesn't have any family members to take care of her, does she?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Her parents are both dead. No siblings."

"You better get back to the hospital then. Don't want her to wake up without you there. Give Miss Hooper my regards."

Sherlock walked down the corridor, his mind swimming with his brother's advice. He turned back to look at him. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"It's _Doctor_ Hooper. She did get a medical degree, you know."

Mycroft merely rolled his eyes at Sherlock's childishness, but he was secretly grateful that his brother had at least made the effort to try and lighten the mood.

 _He's definitely changing,_ Mycroft thought. _And for the better. Who would've thought?_

* * *

Sherlock stepped into the hospital room just as Molly started to stir. He watched as she gradually regained some motion in her limbs, her injured body coming back to life.

He heard her mumble something that sounded like his name, but he couldn't be sure.

He saw the frown on her face and took one of her small hands in his to assure her that she was safe now. That was what people do, wasn't it? Holding hands to give comfort? He personally wasn't sure why it was comforting, just that he saw many people do this before.

"What is it, Molly? What do you need?"

"You," she mumbled groggily before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Sherlock didn't let go of her hand for a long time after she fell asleep again. He stared down at her, his heart overwhelmed with so many emotions that they threatened to choke him.

* * *

"S-Sher…lock?" Molly croaked, her throat completely parched from the lack of water.

"He went to the canteen to get some coffee," a kind voice said.

Molly looked to her side and saw a tired John Watson gazing down at her with a smile on his face. "You've slept long enough, Molls."

She suddenly realised where she was and _why_ she was here. She shut her eyes tightly while the events from that horrible night came flooding back to her.

_I'm safe now. I'm safe. No need to be afraid. I'm in a hospital. Richard is not –_

She swallowed hard at the thought of Richard's name. An uneasy feeling was settling in her stomach and she wondered what he had actually managed to do to her, and where he was right now. There were so many questions waiting to be answered and she was afraid of some of them.

"Water?" John offered, holding out a glass to her.

Molly accepted it gratefully, gulping down the liquid and enjoying the feel of it running down her dry throat. "How long was I out?"

"Thirty-seven hours, forty minutes and sixteen seconds," a deep baritone voice replied. "I don't think you'll want to sleep for quite a while."

Molly heard herself draw in a sharp intake of breath when she saw Sherlock walking in with a cup of coffee in his hands. Her eyes travelled from his mop of curls, to his crystal blue eyes, his mouth, his lean body, his slim fingers… She thought that she was never going to see him again. A lump formed in her throat and she hastily gulped down more water.

"Hello Molly," he smiled, coming over to sit beside her on the bed.

John noticed the look shared between them and stood up quickly, mumbling something about going for his coffee break.

They were silent for a while after John left, neither knowing quite what to say. Finally, Molly plucked up enough courage to ask. "Was I –"

"No. He didn't get that far," Sherlock said, a grim look reflected in his eyes.

She breathed a huge sigh of relieve and leaned further back into her pillow. "Oh thank god." She thought she might cry – she was so sure that she was going to be raped.

"What…what happened to him?"

"I dealt with him. But he will be custody soon. After he recovers, of course," Sherlock said, his blue eyes turning icy at some memory.

"Do I want to know?"

"No."

"Thank you," she smiled weakly.

"You're welcome."

"The person who saved me…it was…."

"Yes?"

"It was Mycroft, wasn't it? I thought I heard his voice calling my name."

Sherlock nodded. "It was him. And a few of his men. They were monitoring the surveillance camera outside your flat when they noticed Richard entering your house. Don't worry about the camera. Mycroft watches everyone."

"I must thank him."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly. "Mycroft wouldn't care if you didn't. It's probably his way of apologising for kidnapping you after my fall just for an interrogation."

His lips twitched slightly and she couldn't stop the small smile that formed on her lips. That was honestly the most ridiculous way of meeting someone for the first time. Trust a Holmes to be so dramatic.

But her smile disappeared almost instantly.

"Oh god what happened to Mrs Freeman and Toby?" Molly asked in alarm, suddenly remembering that they were very much embroiled in this ordeal as well.

"Mrs Freeman is fine. She was only unconscious for a few hours due to the ketamine he drugged her with. Toby is fine too. He only suffered a kick to the stomach. He should recover soon."

Molly felt the tension leaving her chest at the news. She had to pay her elderly neighbour a visit after she was discharged from the hospital. She secretly wondered if her neighbour would actually want to see her again.

"Where's Toby now? Is he still at my place?"

"No. Since you'll be coming to Baker Street after you're discharged, I took the liberty to bring him there first."

"But your furniture…he'll scratch them…"

"I managed to train him."

Molly gaped. "What?"

"You were unconscious for a long time, so I took the opportunity to train that feline of yours. It was just a matter of simple association. I placed some bowls cat food all around the house as an encouragement. The moment he started yowling and wanting to scratch the furniture, I placed him back in his cat carrier. Once he had calmed down, I would let him out again. After doing this for three hours, he finally seemed to realise that behaving himself meant more food and scratching the furniture meant that he would go back into his carrier," Sherlock finished proudly. "I'd say he's quite comfortable at 221B now."

Molly couldn't believe her ears. Sherlock Holmes had actually trained her cat. He had deemed it as something important enough for him to spend time on. And did he just "invite" her back to Baker Street to recuperate there? What was going on?

She started to laugh, feeling much more comfortable and happy than she had been moments ago. The mere thought of Sherlock training Toby was amusing and endearing.

John walked in just when Molly was laughing. He smiled happily, glad that she was feeling a bit better now. He was worried when she had first gained consciousness – her eyes were blank and lifeless.

"Feeling better?" he asked, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

Her reaction startled everybody in the room.

Molly flinched involuntarily and let out a small yelp of shock, her eyes blinking quickly in fear. She immediately shook his hand away and pushed herself further back into her pillow.

Her eyes widened in shock when she realised what she had done. She had not touched Sherlock yet so John was the first one to have had any physical contact with her since she had woken up. "Oh my god, John! I'm so sorry…I don't know what came over me. I just…"

She saw that Sherlock and John were staring at her with carefully blank expressions.

"It's ok, Molls. You're probably still in shock. I shouldn't have touched you."

Molly shook her head, feeling upset and worried. "You don't have to apologise. I was just startled, that's all. I have to take some time to…to feel comfortable with physical contact again."

John nodded confidently. "Don't worry too much. I reckon you'll recover from the shock soon enough."

Molly just smiled back at him sadly, wondering if she should believe him.

* * *

Sherlock leaned back against the hospital chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, ready to go into his thinking mode. He needed to revisit the moments with Molly from the time she regained consciousness till now. He looked over at her and saw that she was still asleep. The nurse had come in earlier to administer a dose of sleeping pills and painkillers so that Molly could rest. She was still very weak physically and her stomach wound was hurting her. Satisfied that she was still sleeping soundly, he closed his eyes and entered his mind palace.

She had looked just as he had expected her to look after her ordeal. She was slightly distraught and confused. But her face had revealed affection when she saw him enter her room with his cup of coffee. That was fully understandable and expected, given her feelings for him. Thereafter, she had looked concerned and frightened when they were discussing about Richard, which was a normal reaction, as far as he knew from his experiences with victims whom he had met before. She had laughed when he told her about disciplining Toby, which was a natural reaction as well.

_Look harder Sherlock. Look closer._

He forced himself to scrutinise her face more closely. That was when he saw the lines of worry around her eyes, and the fear that would appear on her face at random intervals. It was so faint that he hadn't picked up on it earlier. He noticed that her eyes would dart around and widen whenever there was a loud sound from the hospital corridor, as if she was afraid that someone would burst into the room and pounce on her. And even though he was sitting beside her on the bed just now, she never once reached out to touch his hand, which was frankly what he had expected her to do. He thought that she would want some contact with him as a source of comfort. Apparently not then.

_She's still terrified._

Sherlock frowned at this realisation. He knew that she was going to be in a bit of shock after the Richard ordeal. But he hadn't counted on the fact that she would be this afraid. It seemed irrational to him. He had already told her that Richard was gone and he wasn't going to come after her again. So why was she still so frightened?

He ruffled his curls in frustration. It was going to take a lot more effort than he envisioned caring for Molly. He would need to…sympathise with her, and sympathising had never been something he did. Sympathising had always been John's area of expertise, not his. It had always seemed like a waste of time and energy. Stupid, even.

He sighed loudly and snapped out of his mind palace. He was going to need to do a lot of research on human emotions if he was going to be able to help Molly recover.

He didn't know whether he was ever going to fully understand the human ability to sympathise with others, but he was determined to do all he could to help her. He was surprised at how easy it was to come to this decision.

_I keep doing unexpected things when it comes to her. And I actually want to do it. Why do feelings make you like that? I don't understand. Will I ever understand? Should I even try to understand? They are irrational things after all. Why doesn't it bother me as much as I thought it would? I didn't use to be like this._

Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, he went over to kiss Molly lightly on the forehead before sinking back down on the hospital chair and closing his eyes, his mind saturated with too many questions – questions he was pretty sure he was never going to fully be able to find the answers to.


	11. Emerging Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly spends some time with Mrs Hudson while Sherlock and John go back to Cardiff. She starts to hope that Sherlock may just have some feelings for her.

Molly stifled a yawn as she closed her book. She had been reading for the past four hours and she was starting to get bored and sleepy. It didn't help that both Sherlock and John were out of town at the moment, making her the sole inhabitant of 221B.

Mycroft had jumped at the first opportunity he had to send them back to Cardiff, and there they had remained for the past four days. She had assumed that they would be back soon, but the case was proving to be an absolute enigma.

With the media now getting wind of the murders, Molly had been able to keep up with the case while watching the telly. Most of the journalists seemed intent on irritating Sherlock by sticking a camera at his face every time he left his hotel room. There was once when Sherlock would have verbally lashed out at a particularly nosy reporter if John hadn't gripped onto his arm and give him one of his warning looks. She noticed that he was looking paler and gaunter, which was probably brought upon by a lack of food and an excess of nicotine patches. She sighed inwardly – he always worried her when he got too caught up in his cases. She wished she were in Cardiff with them just so that she could force some food down Sherlock's throat, regardless of how violent that actual scenario might turn out to be.

_Oh god, I just sounded like an over-concerned girlfriend. I need to stop this._

"Woo-hoo!" a kind voice called from the corridor. "May I come in dear?"

"Of course, Mrs Hudson!" Molly winced slightly as she trudged to the living room, the stitches from her stab wound tugging lightly whenever she took a step. She smiled when she saw the old lady placing plates of biscuits and a pot of tea on the coffee table.

"Hello dear, thought you'd like some company. It gets a bit boring, doesn't it? When the boys are out of town, that is."

"Thanks for coming up. Yes, I was getting bored," Molly said as she settled herself on the sofa gingerly, careful not to make any sudden movements that would cause her pain again. Toby immediately curled up beside her and purred contentedly when she reached out and scratched him behind his ears.

"You're welcome. I can't watch the telly all day anyway. Tea?"

"Yes, please."

Mrs Hudson flashed her a kind smile before pouring her a cuppa and sitting down beside her. "How are you feeling?"

"A lot better, thanks."

It wasn't exactly a lie. Her superficial wounds were healing steadily and even though she was still a little frightened of loud sounds and physical contact, she had made considerable progress in those areas. Sherlock had even been able to give her hand a light squeeze before leaving for Cardiff, much to the amazement of John and her. She wondered if John's open mouth was due to the fact that Sherlock was able to touch her without making her flinch, or because Sherlock had actually displayed yet another show of affection. She herself didn't know which of these two reasons amazed her. Perhaps it was both.

"Did the boys take proper care of you before they left?" Mrs Hudson asked, breaking her out of her reverie.

"They did. They were very nice actually. John kept checking on me every hour," Molly smiled.

Mrs Hudson swallowed her biscuit with a bemused expression before laughing. Despite being a medical doctor, John had a tendency to be overenthusiastic when it came to caring about the people close to him.

"And Sherlock?"

"He's been surprisingly…sweet," Molly admitted. She couldn't believe that she had just used the word 'sweet' to describe Sherlock Holmes. It would have been completely inconceivable a few years ago.

"Sweet?"

"Er, yes. His version of sweet anyway. He forced John to go back to my flat and bring me some of my favourite DVDs and books. And he even remembered to feed Toby despite disliking him. Although I think he actually made John feed him."

Mrs Hudson shook her head affectionately. "That boy is always forcing poor John everywhere. He's just so lazy when it doesn't involve his cases." She took a sip of a tea before speaking again. "What do you make of his actions, dear?"

"What do you mean?" Molly certainly did not miss the knowing smile that Mrs Hudson just gave her.

"Why do you think Sherlock's so nice to you all of a sudden? Not that he wasn't nice before. Well he wasn't _that_ nice was he? It looks like he's been treating you a lot better over the past two weeks you've been here, ever since that horrible man started stalking you."

"I don't know…maybe because we're friends?" She was starting to feel uncomfortable. It seemed as though Mrs Hudson was going to delve into some private matter and as much as Molly was fond of the old lady, she was definitely not ready to discuss her feelings with her.

" _Just_ friends?"

Molly looked away and blushed furiously, immediately hating how easily her blood always flowed to her cheeks. "Mrs Hudson…"

Mrs Hudson cut her off. "Don't have to feel embarrassed, dear. I'm just saying that I've never seen the boy so caring before. I never know what's going on in his funny old head, but I do know when he cares."

"I know he cares, but he doesn't like me that way, Mrs Hudson. You know how he's like."

"People change all the time. I've seen enough over the seventy years of my life. And Sherlock has changed a lot ever since he returned. Don't you think he's a lot nicer now? He's still driving me crazy with his tantrums, but at least the boy is trying."

Molly looked down at her lap and started playing with her fingers, not quite knowing how to respond to that.

Mrs Hudson was right – Sherlock had been more caring towards her during the past two weeks than he'd ever been before. He was nice enough to invite her to Baker Street when Richard was still prowling the streets of London, and he'd been rather kind to her after she was discharged from the hospital. Even though he still occasionally spouted some mean things to her, he was quick to read her expression and apologise sincerely, something she did not expect him to do. There was once when he even made her a cup of tea and left it beside the bed after unintentionally deducing something mean about her from her pyjamas.

_And the thing with the nightmares…_

The nightmares. The one thing that kept plaguing her whenever she closed her eyes.

Ever since she returned to 221B from the hospital, she would be jolted awake a few times at night, sweating profusely and shaking too much to fall asleep again.

She had hidden this fact from Sherlock and John the first few times it happened, but the nightmares somehow just kept getting worse. Her luck ran out one night when she actually shouted out in her sleep. John hadn't heard her, but Sherlock definitely did.

He had silently brought her a glass of warm water and some sleeping pills (which she was ingesting far too often over the past week – she'll have to deal with that soon), staring at her with a look so full of concern, she thought it might choke her. He had stayed with her that night, talking softly about some random things until she finally managed to fall asleep to the sound of his voice.

And he had done it every other night when he was woken up by her shout.

It was the most thoughtful thing anybody had ever done for her and her heart swelled when she remembered his lean form sitting on the edge of the bed, watching over her.

Add all of these to the looks of fondness that he had been giving her recently and maybe, just maybe…

_NO. STOP THIS. You'll just get hurt again, Molly. You know better than to hope. He's never going to return your feelings. Don't be stupid. He's just trying to be a nice friend._

She snapped out of her thoughts and saw Mrs Hudson looking at her expectantly, waiting for her perspective on this new Sherlock. She gave her a small smile and shook her head. "Sorry Mrs Hudson, but I really don't think he likes me that way."

Mrs Hudson looked slightly disappointed with her reply but decided to change the subject. "Any news from the boys about their case?"

Molly was just about to say that they haven't told her anything yet when her phone vibrated loudly, causing Toby to hiss in annoyance at the device. She patted his head to soothe him while Mrs Hudson helped her retrieve her phone from the other side of the table.

She muttered a thank you before looking at her screen curiously.

_**Almost done with the case. Need to give my statement to the incompetent police force here before I can leave Cardiff. Will be back by tonight. –SH** _

A small smile formed on her lips when she read the text. She couldn't believe that he had actually bothered to inform her of his whereabouts. Maybe he knew that she would be bored to death by herself, or maybe John forced him to, knowing that she'd be worried. She couldn't be sure.

What she was sure of right now was that her relationship with Sherlock was transitioning into something else that she couldn't quite understand. He never texted her when he was away on his cases. His texts were previously limited to requesting for more body parts or ordering her to the morgue immediately. She welcomed the change, the chance to see Sherlock being sweet in his own way, but what was going on with him?

Could it be that he really did fancy her (as ridiculous and impossible as it sounded)? But why was she so afraid that he might actually like her? Was it because it sounded so surreal, or maybe because she was frightened that it wouldn't last?

Her phone vibrated again and her heart skipped a beat.

_**Are you feeling better? Any nightmares? –SH** _

Molly felt a lump in her throat and hastily gulped down some tea. They were merely four simple words, but coming from him, it meant the world to her. She knew that it wasn't easy for him to connect to the sentimental part of himself because it couldn't always offer him concrete answers. For him to rid himself of his aloof exterior and genuinely show her that he cared was both astonishing and beautiful.

_**A lot better, thanks. Still have nightmares. The pills are helping though. You ok? Please remember to eat. – Molly** _

_**I'm alright. Until I meet another of those idiots from the police, that is. -SH** _

Molly grinned at his obvious disdain at Cardiff's police force. Apparently, he still valued Lestrade and Scotland Yard above everyone else professionally. She looked up from her phone and with a start, realised that Mrs Hudson was watching her inquisitively. She mentally cursed herself – her face must have displayed a wide array of emotions over the past few minutes while she was just staring at her phone. Now Mrs Hudson was going to be convinced that Sherlock and she had something secret going on.

"Any news?" she asked again.

"Just that they're done with the case. Sherlock just needs to give his statement and then he…they can come home." Molly realised that she had quite forgotten about John in the midst of all this.

"That's good. Sherlock's texting you now, isn't he?"

Mrs Hudson gave her another knowing smile but had the sense to remain silent and continue eating her biscuits, leaving Molly alone with her thoughts – thoughts that were unsettling and confusing, to say the least.

_Maybe he does fancy me. Maybe he has really changed._

In spite of herself, she felt her spirits lift a little at that thought.

* * *

"Have you texted her yet?" John asked Sherlock, poking his head around the adjoining door between their hotel rooms.

"Yes. Although I still don't understand why I'm doing this since I'm going to see her tonight."

John sighed and went to sit beside his friend on the bed. "Because you need to show her that you care. People generally text or call to ask about the people they care about when they're away."

"But she _knows_ that I care. I've been showing her that for the past week before we came here."

John shook his head. "It's not that simple with her. You've been a complete git to her for so long, so she's not going to believe you easily. You have to earn her trust and show her that you genuinely care."

"I've been a complete…git to her?" Sherlock asked with a confused expression.

"Oh please, don't pretend that you don't know. You've been a bloody arse, that's what you've been. It's a wonder she didn't punch you in the face long ago. That woman has the tolerance of a saint."

Sherlock scowled at his friend's remarks but remained silent. He guessed that John was right. He hadn't been the nicest person to Molly. It was rather embarrassing when he reflected on how he used to treat her. It was as if the universe was playing a bad joke on him by making him fall in love ( _is it love? Yes, it probably is)_ with very person he used to treat so dismissively and rudely.

John patted Sherlock's shoulder before standing up. "Come on, let's get out of this bloody room. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. I could eat a horse."

Sherlock was just about to reply that he wasn't hungry when he remembered Molly's reminder for him to eat. Oh well. Maybe he would grab a bite before going over to give his statement. That was the least he could do to stop her from worrying whenever he left London.

* * *

It was close to midnight when Sherlock and John finally reached Baker Street. John mumbled a hello to Molly before retiring to his bedroom, completely exhausted. Since Sherlock wasn't tired (he rarely was), he decided to spend some time with Molly, who was staring blankly at the telly.

He could see the circles under her eyes; how they had darkened considerably over the past week and a half that she'd been back. Her eye bags were bigger and her face had gotten thinner. She was obviously tired since her shoulders were slumped forward, but she was refusing to sleep.

For now anyway.

He knew that she was afraid of the darkness that she would descend into once she closed her eyes, because then she would have no control over her mind. She would spiral into one of her dreams again, reliving the horror of that incident in a hundred different ways. From the shouts that would sometimes echo from his bedroom, he was pretty sure that the dreams were much worse than what had actually happened to her.

Sherlock felt a surge of anger when he saw her fragile form. He wanted nothing more than to hit Richard again, to hit the bastard that had caused her this much pain and stress.

Much to his surprise, he completely understood what she was going through right now. He hadn't been immune to nightmares after he fell off the roof of Bart's. In fact, Moriarty had made a habit of greeting him in his subconscious for months after his fall. It had made him feel weak and angry then. He wondered how the nightmares were making her feel.

"Not going to take the pills tonight?" he asked her quietly.

She shook her head. "I'm becoming too dependent on them, don't you think? Better stop now before I cross a line that's going to be difficult to return from."

Flashes of his past with drugs suddenly flitted into Sherlock's mind. A vague memory of a needle in his shaking hand as he desperately tried to starve off the hunger to feel it prick his skin. An internal conflict between pleasure and health.

He looked over at Molly's determined face. He could see that she was scared and she _wanted_ the temporary release that the pills would give her, but she refused to cave in to her desires. This strength was something that he had always secretly admired, seeing how it took him some time to nurture it, making sure that he would never turn to drugs again.

She was staring resolutely ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. Once again, her internal strength amazed him. He saw the tenacity burning in her eyes and he thought that she had never looked more beautiful than in this moment. Something in him stirred and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her, to form a bond with her that only belonged to the both of them. It was a strong desire and his mind immediately warned him to shut it down – desires had never been good in his experience.

And yet…he could feel that this was something else entirely. This desire for contact with Molly, and only Molly, did not feel wrong. In fact, it felt very _right._ Something deep in the recesses of his mind told him that this desire wasn't the same as the drugs, or the times when he had craved for sex when he was younger. No, it was something far more intimate and personal. This feeling wasn't logical, but then again, nothing about love was, was it?

So without a second thought, he leaned forward and very gently, placed his lips on hers.

He heard her let out a soft gasp and just for a split second, her body stiffened. Then, she started to return his kiss. He could feel the fluttery feeling returning to his stomach and his whole body was starting to get warm – it was the single most wonderful thing he had ever experienced in a long time. He was just about to draw his tongue over her lips lightly when she pulled away, looking at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked, slightly breathless.

"Kissing you, obviously."

"No, Sherlock. What I meant was _why_ did you kiss me?"

_Because I think I love you._

The answer was so simple. But somehow, it felt as if someone had just sewed his mouth shut, and no words could come out. He just stared back at her without replying. He wanted to confess his feelings to her, to tell her that he'd finally realised how much she actually meant to him. But he couldn't. Not yet.

He hated himself for being such a coward.

And John had told him to take it slow with her. If he told her now, she wouldn't believe him, would she?

"Sherlock?" she prompted.

"I kissed you because it has been proven that kissing releases endorphins, which would make you more relaxed and happy. It'll help you heal," he explained, his face returning once more to an impassive mask as he lied.

"It'll help me…heal?"

"Yes. I do want you to heal faster, you know."

"Why?" She asked, an uncharacteristic glint of challenge in her eyes.

_Why does it seem as if she knows? No, she can't know. I have hidden my feelings from her rather well._

"Because I want you back at the morgue as soon as possible. The other pathologists are completely insufferable, and they don't work well with me." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. For a moment, he had actually thought that it was a reasonable and practical explanation.

Until he saw the hurt in her eyes.

_Oh hell. Not good. Definitely not good._

"You want me to heal faster so that I can go back to work?" The sadness was apparent in her tone.

He didn't reply. He was finding it a bit difficult to look her in the eyes and the familiar rush of guilt was making its way around the pit of his stomach again.

"It's always about you, isn't it?" she muttered softly, looking defeated and sad. "I'm tired. I think I'm going to sleep now."

He watched as she quietly closed the bedroom door, feeling a stab of pain in his chest when he remembered her dejected expression.

* * *

Molly blinked her eyes furiously, trying to stop the tears from spilling out. She had never felt so hurt before. She couldn't believe that Sherlock had just told her that. It was as if she would never stop being his tool, one that he would always use.

_But it's not really his fault._

She sighed at that realisation. He had already helped her so much. It was her own bloody fault that she had considered the possibility that he might actually harbour some feelings for her. If anyone's to be blamed for her hurt, it was her own stupidity and hope at thinking that their relationship was something more.

_He'll only ever see you as a friend. Deal with it._

She really enjoyed being at Baker Street – it was just like living with a family. But she also couldn't be so close to Sherlock right now. She needed to distance herself for a while and get her emotions under control. She was already a fool when she let her feelings for him surface again. If anything, his recent actions had just made her love him more and that was dangerous. She needed to move on if she ever wanted to be happy.

She closed her eyes and came to a decision – she was going to leave Baker Street tomorrow.


	12. Tumbling Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to fix things.

It had been three weeks since Molly packed her things and left Baker Street.

It had been three weeks since Sherlock had seen her.

And he was not coping well. Not that he'd ever admit it.

Granted, he had managed to solve eleven cases during her absence, which was definitely a new record for him. But unlike the past, he was now drowning himself in work in a frenzied manner. He would hound Lestrade daily for cases, so much so that the Detective Inspector had to throw him out of his office, ordering him to only come back to New Scotland Yard when he was called upon. Instead of letting that deter him, Sherlock had taken to roaming around the streets of London, hoping to discover something amiss. He had taken every single case that clients had offered him, including one which involved the disappearance of a young girl's dog. While John was glad to see Sherlock helping the child, he was secretly worried about his friend's mental state.

He had also started to smoke again, much to the chagrin of John, who hated waking up to a flat reeking of nicotine. Sherlock had calmly ignored his friend's protests every time, choosing to concentrate on composing tunes on his violin instead.

Molly had told John and Mrs Hudson that the reason for her shifting back was because she wished to be alone. She had claimed that the quiet would help her. But Sherlock knew the real reason she had left.

It was because of the kiss. That stupid kiss he had given her in the spur of the moment. He had not been thinking straight then, allowing his emotions to cloud his usually clear mind. He had given her a cause for hope, only to shatter it completely with a few words.

_"You want me to heal faster so that I can go back to work?"_

His chest tightened whenever he replayed Molly's words in his head. What was he thinking when he had told her he wanted her to recover faster so that she could return to work for _him_? He'd been a complete idiot. The dejected look on her tired face had been haunting him endlessly at night, and he'd not had a proper night's rest since Molly left.

This was exactly why he hated dealing with emotions – they were volatile and unpredictable. He seemed unable to grasp them well, and even when he tried, he always ended up hurting people.

But he wasn't going to do that anymore. Giving in to his desires had been a distraction and a detriment. He needed to revert back to his former self – the one that refused to allow any notion of romance enter his mind at all.

Brain work was undoubtedly the best. It had always been the best. It was the only thing that should keep him going, not something silly and unpredictable like love. He should only devote his attention to his cases.

And that was why he was back at Bart's, working on yet another case that Lestrade had thankfully requested his help for just this morning. Apart from lapsing back to some of his old habits, Sherlock had also made an effort to commit Molly's work schedule to his memory.

He could not go back to the time when he had purposefully avoided Bart's by declining difficult cases. If he was going to maintain a sense of normalcy, he would have to occupy himself with challenging work – work that definitely required the use of more elaborate lab equipment.

He huffed out a long breath of air as he continued studying the evidence of footprint under the microscope. The lab door opened suddenly but he barely looked up, too engrossed with the sample in front of him.

However, a short intake of breath, the sound all too familiar to his ears, forced him to pause.

His heart skipped a beat when he felt Molly staring at him from the doorway. He continued staring into the microscope lenses and his mouth went dry. What was she doing here? He had made sure that he knew her every shift just so that he could avoid her.

"Hi, Sherlock," she said, making her way into the lab.

"Molly." He greeted her tersely without even looking at her. His voice sounded too formal and tense for his liking. He cleared his throat. "Here on your day off?"

She did not give any indication of surprise that he knew her shift. He surmised that she was intelligent enough to know that he had memorised her schedule. "I'm filling in for my colleague. Her dad just passed away."

He didn't reply and she moved over to the computer beside him. His entire body involuntarily tensed up and his pulse started to race slightly. He had not been this close to her for three whole weeks. He could smell her strawberry-scented shampoo and images of her brown hair flitted into his mind. He swallowed hard and attempted to focus his attention back to his soil sample, but found that it was completely futile. Every part of his body was screaming at him to look at her. He wanted to know how she was coping.

He knew that he shouldn't look. The sound of her voice alone had almost nearly broken his resolve to ignore her. But he had the misfortune of having an insatiable curiosity. Once something piqued his interest, he never stopped until he acquired all the information he possibly could.

So he looked.

Sherlock did a double take when his eyes took in her form. Molly looked worse than she had been before she left Baker Street. The dark shadows under her eyes were much more pronounced on her pale face and she somehow managed to lose more weight (four pounds) despite her now worryingly thin frame. She had applied some light make-up, but he was still able to see the lines of worry on her face. Her shoulders were slightly hunched and she seemed fatigued. Her once bright eyes were dull and drained.

And that was the moment when he felt something in him break. His composure and façade of indifference for the past three weeks tumbled down.

He had blamed Richard for tormenting her, but here he was, cruelly pushing her away and hurting her. If anything, he might be even worse than Richard. At least Molly didn't trust or like that revolting man. But him? He knew long ago that he meant a lot to Molly, more so than many people did.

He suddenly felt very warm and couldn't be so close to her right now. He had to get away before he did something stupid like kiss her again.

Sherlock stood up from the lab stool abruptly and grabbed his coat, walking briskly out of the lab without a second glance at Molly. He needed to sort out his jumbled thoughts and come up with a strategic plan to repair their relationship. He couldn't ignore it anymore – not when it was destroying her (and him, if he was being completely honest) slowly from within. No, he had to do something about it.

But he was going to need some help.

* * *

"Ok, pretend I'm Molly."

"What?"

"Pretend I'm Molly," John repeated. "Just tell me what you would tell her."

Sherlock hesitated before realising that he probably needed the practice. He felt extremely uncomfortable doing this in front of John, but there was no one else who would help him.

"Go on," John encouraged.

Sherlock took a deep breath to compose his nerves before starting. "Molly, I think it's time we became a couple."

"Why?" John asked in his best imitation of Molly's voice, which was frankly, horrendous.

"Because both of us are compatible. We get along well enough and I recently discovered that I have feelings for you, and you have been in love with me since you met me four years ago. You have an above average intelligence and a curiosity for chemistry, which are two traits I admire. Although your intelligence is nowhere near the level of mine, it is still much higher than most people's, which makes us able to communicate fairly well. Also, since you are usually painfully awkward around others, my confidence will be complementary to your personality. I can – what?" Sherlock noticed a look of horror on John's face.

"Is that your speech to get her to be your girlfriend?" John asked with wide eyes. He bit back a smile when he saw Sherlock grimace at the word 'girlfriend'.

"Yes."

"Well then," John said, stepping closer to him. For a split second, Sherlock thought that his friend was going to display some form of affection and was ready to push him away. He didn't want him to _literally_ think that he was Molly. "John –"

His sentence was unceremoniously cut short by John's open palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp slap.

"What was that for?" Sherlock snapped, bringing his hand to his cheek.

"For being a git!" John yelled, waving his arms furiously in the air. "Molly will definitely slap you if you tell her this! And I'm acting as her now, am I not?"

"Why will she slap me?" Sherlock was confused. He thought he had been very clear about his intentions in his speech.

"Why?" John laughed. "Because you just made her sound like she was your science project. Like something you're trying to improve. And you called her 'painfully awkward'. Don't say that, for god's sake."

Sherlock frowned. "But she _is_ painfully awkward."

"Yeah, most people don't actually like to be reminded that they are."

"But I like that she's painfully awkward!" Sherlock pointed out defiantly.

John paused and stared at his friend. "Bloody hell. You really like her, don't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you think I'm doing this to torture myself? I am not a masochist."

John sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Just try not to sound so logical in your speech. She's quite sensitive so you have to be more sentimental. Tell her how you really _feel_." He felt a bit sorry for him. It was obvious that he was trying but this was definitely new territory for him.

Sherlock nodded stiffly and sat back down on his chair. He picked up his violin again and started to play, needing to disconnect from his surroundings and concentrate.

_Incorporate more feelings and be more sensitive. I can do that._

* * *

Molly was just clearing up the lab when he walked in. She froze momentarily before continuing to clear the test tubes, hoping that he wouldn't start talking to her and turning her into a flustered mess.

No such luck.

"Molly, I was wondering if you'd like to go for some coffee."

She swallowed hard. This was it. He was going to tell her as gently as he could that there could never be a future for them. He was Sherlock Holmes and he would never consider romance. She knew for a while that this was coming. After all, haven't she left Baker Street just to distance herself from him and prepare herself for the harsh truth once and for all? And yet, she didn't think that she could hear it from him now. She still needed more time.

"No, thank you. I have to be somewhere," she said shakily, giving him the lamest excuse off the top of her head. She quickly dumped the remaining test tubes into the box and grabbed her bag, making a beeline for the exit. She could feel Sherlock's eyes trained on her as she hastily pushed open the lab doors and disappeared down the corridor.

Molly felt bad for turning him down. She noticed his dejected look when she just about ran out of the lab. But she couldn't be so close to him right now. Seeing him in her lab this morning was already painful enough. She knew that even if she succeeded in supressing her feelings for him, she would never stop loving him. Her heart, once given, rarely came back to her.

She continued walking absently and found herself approaching the nearby park. She saw an empty bench and sat down, letting out a deep sigh as she did so. The cool night air had already descended upon London and the chill was starting to clear her head. She removed her pair of gloves from her bag and slipped her freezing hands into them. She decided that she was going to stay out a bit later tonight since she had no work tomorrow. The thought of going back home now and being alone was dull and unappealing. And she couldn't sleep even if she tried. She hadn't been sleeping well at all for the past three weeks – part of it was due to her nightmares, but most of it was her thinking about Sherlock. She was beginning to wonder if thinking about Sherlock so often was actually driving her nightmares away.

Molly silently watched the people around her come and go. Some were walking quickly through the park, probably only using it as a short cut to the houses at the other end. There were a few couples strolling about, enjoying each other's company in the peace that the park offered this late at night. Nearby, a young couple were apparently locked in a fierce embrace. Molly blushed and quickly averted her gaze. There were a few other loners like her as well, lost in their own world.

Her thoughts inevitably started to stray back to him when nothing else could command her attention. She had tried so hard to forget, but seeing him again today had made her realise that she just wasn't going to be able to. He had become a significant part of her life and she didn't want him completely gone. It was futile to hope for a relationship now, even if he had been much more caring to her than she could've ever hoped for. And it was unfair of her to wish for him to change. He was who he was, and as his friend, she should accept that.

She wished that he hadn't kissed her. It just made forgetting him that much harder. She could still remember how soft and warm his lips were, and how tenderly they had pressed against hers. Why did he have to do that, and then crush her heart with his words after?

She suddenly realised that her cheeks were wet.

Oh.

She leaned back against the bench and closed her eyes tightly, willing her tears to stop flowing.

* * *

It was past midnight when Molly finally made her way back to her flat, completely exhausted. She yawned and rubbed her eyes tiredly, turning on her lights.

A scream lodged itself in her throat and her hands flew to her mouth in shock.

Sitting in the middle of her living room was none other than Sherlock, who was staring back at her calmly, as if breaking into someone's house at night was a common occurrence for him.

"What are you doing here?" She managed to ask after her heart had finally stopped thumping heavily against her chest.

"It was too cold to wait outside," he shrugged nonchalantly.

It was a reasonable explanation, but it still didn't directly answer her question. It was clear that he was here to discuss about them. She hadn't realised that he was so desperate to tell her to get over him. She felt her stomach sink at that thought.

They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time, and Molly got more uncomfortable as the seconds passed. The silence had started to weigh down upon them when he finally spoke.

"I lied, you know," he said.

Her chest tightened. Sherlock's voice was rough and quiet, very much like the day he had told her that she counted.

"Lied about what?"

"About why I kissed you that night." He stood up from the sofa and walked across the room to her, his blue eyes boring intensely into her brown ones. He stopped when he was a few metres away from her, as if he was afraid of coming any closer.

"Molly, I kissed you because I wanted to."

"W-what?" she stammered. He could not have just said that. She must be hallucinating. She must have breathed in something dangerous at the lab. Or maybe he was here for a favour. Yes, definitely a favour. He was lying to her so that he could get something.

"I don't understand," Molly said, shaking her head slowly, like she was in a daze.

"What don't you understand? Is it not clear enough?" His voice broke on the last word and she lost her already wavering composure.

"No, it's not clear!" she cried. "I don't know what's happening between us! One moment you're so sweet to me, and the next you act like nothing happened. Sometimes I catch you staring at me fondly as if you like me! But the look will disappear as fast as it appeared! And why did you have to kiss me? It just makes this so much harder!"

She was sobbing now, releasing all the emotions that she had bottled up for the past three weeks. "I really don't know what's going through your mind, Sherlock." She wiped her tears away furiously. "Help me understand, because I have no idea. Why are you _really_ here? What do you need this time?"

"You."

Molly choked back another sob, remembering the conversation they had in her lab more than two years ago. "Please don't lie. I rather you told me the truth so that we can both move on. Or at least I can. There were never any feelings on your part, were there?"

She saw a rare look of desperation and hurt cross his face. He closed the remaining space between them and to her surprise, cupped her cheeks with his hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.

"I am not lying, Molly."

She stared into his eyes in shock. He actually looked vulnerable and scared. This could not be happening, could it? She had been so certain that he didn't like her that way.

"I need you." he said softly. "There is an empty feeling in me after you left. I've been trying to get rid of it by working constantly, but nothing is happening. I thought it would go away soon, but it hasn't. The emptiness just keeps growing bigger."

"Sherlock–"

He cut her off. If he didn't say this now, he would never find the courage to do it again. "I have certain feelings for you, Molly. Feelings that are quite different from friendship," he said quietly. He looked away from her shocked gaze, as if he was ashamed of succumbing to such emotions.

"Are you telling me what I think you're telling me?" she whispered. She had no idea why she was whispering, except that this felt like a very delicate moment.

"Yes, it is highly likely."

_Oh god, is he actually in love with me? But how?_

She was having some difficulty breathing. The idea of Sherlock having feelings for her was surreal. She looked at him and saw the sincerity etched on his face. It suddenly occurred to her that it must have been so trying for him to accept and acknowledge his feelings for her. He had struggled with himself and stepped away from the security that rationality provided. It wasn't easy for the average person to confess his feelings, and this was Sherlock Holmes. The man who stated that he would never experience romantic feelings.

And yet here he was, attempting to show her the exact opposite despite his obvious discomfort.

It was all for _her._

That was when she felt a cry rising up her throat again. This was all too much to handle. She tried a feeble attempt to stop the dreaded sound but knew that it was futile. She put her head in her hands and started to sob violently, not caring if she looked like a wreck in front of Sherlock.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked worriedly.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked up at his concerned gaze. "No. God no."

"Then why are you crying?"

She choked out another sob and shook her head before placing it back in her hands.

Sherlock didn't know what to do when he encountered crying women. He was rarely around women and he couldn't bother himself with them when they started to cry. It had always irritated him. But the sight of Molly sobbing was different. It stirred up something deeply protective in him. So instead of admonishing her for crying, he pulled her to his chest awkwardly and ran his hand soothingly down her back as she sobbed.

Finally, she managed to calm down. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"It's fine. Better?"

She nodded and wiped the moisture away from her cheeks. She realised that she was a complete mess and was starting to feel embarrassed. She glanced up at Sherlock and saw him looking at her with that fond expression again. She missed that look. Something in her snapped and she tiptoed and touched her lips to his.

She would be lying if she said that it was a passionate kiss – it wasn't. Instead, it was sweet and exploratory.

His lips were dry but soft, and they moulded perfectly against hers, fitting with hers like the last puzzle piece. He tasted mildly of coffee and something spicy, and she could smell his lime-scented aftershave. His lips parted under her pressure and she gently slipped her tongue in, eager to explore the contours of his mouth. She heard him let out a soft moan and dear lord, it was one of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard. She could taste a slight hint of sweet cinnamon, and it was so contrasting with the whole idea of Sherlock that she smiled. Her fingers buried themselves in his mop of dark curls and she felt his arms encircle around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

The myriad of sensations that surfaced due to his smell and touch were so intoxicating and addictive that she would've kissed him forever if she could.

Unfortunately, the biological need for air eventually called and they had to break apart, both breathing heavily. She noticed that his pupils were blown black and only a thin ring of blue could be seen. She took a chance and leaned her head on his chest, hugging his waist tightly.

To her amazement, he didn't push her away. "I am sorry that I hurt you that night," he murmured.

"It was hurtful, what you said. You made me feel like I was just a tool."

"I know. But you should know that I didn't mean it _that_ way. You really are a great pathologist, better than the other imbeciles at the morgue."

"Thank you." She paused. "They're not imbeciles."

"Yes they are."

She hummed in response, too tired to argue. He suddenly kissed the top of her head, making her toes curl. She had not really encountered this affectionate side of him yet and it was making her heart flutter.

"We need to talk about us, you know. It's all still very confusing," she told him.

"Not now."

"Why not?"

He sighed, his warm breath tickling her ear. "Because you look like you can hardly stand on your feet any longer, much less have an intelligent conversation."

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but realised that he was right. She was going to make a fool of herself if she attempted to make sense of their relationship now (were they in a relationship? Oh god she didn't know). She could feel the exhaustion from the past few weeks taking their toll on her.

He tilted her chin up so that he could look into her eyes properly. "The nightmares have been keeping you up."

"Partly, but they're not as bad anymore. You were the one keeping me up most of the time actually."

"Oh?" he arched an eyebrow. "That's only fair, isn't it? You've been keeping me up at night too."

"You hardly ever sleep anyway, so why are you complaining?" She saw his eyes widen in surprise at her retort before he laughed, the sound rumbling deep within his chest.

"True," he agreed.

Sherlock took her hand and led her to the bedroom. Once there, he promptly started to raid her cupboard with no sense of decorum.

"What are you doing?" she asked in alarm.

"I am searching for a shirt I can wear, Molly. I don't fancy sleeping in my dress shirt."

"You're going to er…spend the night here?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"But there's only one bed."

He rolled his eyes slightly when he saw her stationary by the door. "Molly, don't be absurd. It's far too late to get a cab back to Baker Street and I am actually tired for once. I'll just take your lumpy sofa. Slept on it before anyway."

Well, that did make sense. Her mind was really getting cloudy. She went over to help him find one of her dad's old shirts. He then proceeded to unbutton his shirt without any sense of self-consciousness and changed right in front of her. She could've sworn that he actually smirked slightly when he caught her staring at his chest. Then in another act of surprise, he leaned over and kissed her lightly before promptly settling himself on her sofa.

Molly changed into her pyjamas before slipping under the duvet tiredly. She let out a small sigh when her head touched her soft pillow. Given her current state of exhaustion, her bed felt like heaven. She was still confused as to what Sherlock and she were right now, but that would just have to wait till tomorrow.

* * *

Sherlock lay awake for many hours after Molly had fallen asleep, reflecting on their conversation.

He still couldn't tell her directly that he loved her yet, and he wondered if he would ever be able to. It was still something foreign and he felt uncomfortable with the term. No one had actually told him that they loved him before. Even his own mother never bothered to tell him that.

And the closest he ever got to "love" was when he had encountered _The Woman_ , which did not count since he was pretty sure that it was merely an infatuation on his part. He was attracted to her intelligence and the easy way she had used sex to her advantage, but that was it. With The Woman, it was more about the sparks and thrills – she was like a burning flame. It was entertaining while it lasted, but he certainly didn't feel _empty_ after he had left her in Karachi.

But his feelings for Molly ran deeper than sparks and thrills. If Irene was an open fire, then Molly could be likened to embers – something that was less flamboyant but definitely more constant and long-lasting.

She had quietly snuck into his heart and planted herself firmly there. Take her away, and there would be a hole that would never quite cover up.

He couldn't run now even he wanted to.

A sudden moan caused him to stiffen and he broke out of his reverie, rushing into the bedroom.

Molly was restlessly shifting in her sleep, a deep frown on her face. He walked over to her and took her hand in his, hoping that it might calm her down. But it didn't help much. Another soft moan escaped her lips and Sherlock shook her awake gently. She woke up with a start, her eyes wide with fear.

"It's just a dream, Molly," he said.

She nodded and looked away with a resigned expression. "It was actually not as bad as the ones I had before, so I guess that's a good thing. But why won't they go away?"

"It takes time. I should know."

Molly looked at him questioningly and it felt like the most natural thing in the world then to tell her about his nightmares of Moriarty after the fall. He hadn't told anyone about them before, not wanting to appear vulnerable. But somehow, he didn't mind recounting that experience to Molly. After all, he had let his walls tumble down for her more than once. He predicted that it would happen more often in the future too.

She squeezed his hand affectionately and gave him small smile after he finished talking. "Thank you for telling me that."

He noticed that she was still slightly shaken and felt that deep rush of protectiveness again. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

She paused for a while. "Yes, please."

He slipped under the duvet with her and she turned towards him, wrapping an arm around his waist. When he didn't protest, she shifted closer and leaned her head on his chest.

Normally, such intimacy with someone would have disgusted him. He knew that he was supposed to hate it, that such closeness to someone else was going to be detrimental. And yet, when he felt the warmth of her body pressed close to his, the supposed detriments didn't seem so detrimental after all.

"I thought you didn't like physical intimacy," she murmured sleepily when she felt him burying his nose in her hair.

"Wrong. It is usually the people, and not the intimacy, that bothers me." He kissed her forehead. "Go back to sleep."

She sighed contentedly and closed her eyes again. Sherlock thought that he saw the barest hint of a smile just before she slipped back into darkness.

* * *

Molly straightened her blouse nervously as she climbed up the stairs of 221B. This was her first time seeing Sherlock in a week – she had not seen him at all after that day in her flat as he had accepted a case in Manchester immediately upon going back to Baker Street.

This was going to be their first proper date since they'd agreed to be in a relationship one week ago.

Yes, she was well and truly in an actual relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

" _So am I your –"_

" _Don't you dare," Sherlock said warningly._

_Molly sighed. "Then what do you propose I call myself?"_

" _Partner."_

" _Partner?" Molly winkled her nose. It sounded extremely formal._

" _Yes. It does not sound as silly as 'girlfriend', but it has similar connotations."_

" _Fine," she relented. "You can call me that, but I'm still going to call you my boyfriend."_

" _Why?" he demanded._

_Molly shrugged. "It's cute."_

" _Cute?" He looked ready to rip her head off._

_Molly merely laughed at the appalled look on Sherlock's face and gave him a small peck on his lips, pleased when he didn't push her away. "Yes it's cute. Deal with it, Sherlock. Compromise, remember?"_

_Sherlock scowled, looking ever like a petulant child._

Molly smiled as she remembered their conversation the morning after. Sherlock was still adapting to being someone's boyfriend. But overall, she thought that he was doing a rather admirable job. He made the effort to text her every day while he was at Manchester. Molly had missed him terribly while he was away and had wanted to phone him, but she knew that he needed to concentrate on his work. So she settled on being satisfied with knowing that he was safe. It was better than nothing, and they had agreed to compromise.

The fluttery sensation in her stomach intensified as she climbed up the last few steps. She wondered what Sherlock had planned.

Molly froze when she reached the door.

221B was completely unrecognisable. It was clean and neat, devoid of all the usual clutter that were a product of Sherlock's messiness. There were candles placed all around the living room, and she noticed a bunch of daisies on the coffee table. She stepped into the house tentatively, marvelling at the transformation.

"Sherlock?" she called. She heard a rustle behind her and turned around, only to see a disgruntled looking Sherlock appearing from the kitchen, his dark curls in a mess.

"I burnt dinner," he said, looking slightly ashamed. "It would seem that cooking is more difficult than I presumed it would be."

"Sherlock, were you trying to cook for me?" She felt a lump forming in her throat.

"Obviously. Who else will I be cooking for?"

Her nervousness dissipated and she flung her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his. She felt him stiffen for a split second before relaxing into her hold and returning the kiss.

"You shouldn't have," she whispered. She was touched that he went to the trouble to make their first date special. The flat really was beautiful and she could see that a lot of thought was put into its transformation. She was overjoyed, but she couldn't keep one nagging suspicion out of her head.

"Was it John who asked you to do this?" she finally asked him.

Sherlock averted his gaze. "Yes. He said that boyfriends usually arrange this sort of things to make their partners happy. He said that you would enjoy this, although I'm not too sure about that. You do not seem like the flamboyant kind. But John is more experienced in this area than I am, so I followed his advice."

"You did all this to make me happy?"

He rolled his eyes at her question. "Molly, please don't ask me ridiculous questions that you know the answer to." He paused. "Do you like it?"

"Yes I do. It's lovely. It really is. But Sherlock, you're uncomfortable."

He sighed inwardly, realising that he just couldn't hide his emotions well from Molly. "I'm not fond of such settings. Too superfluous. I don't understand why people can't just eat dinner normally. Why in the world must there be flowers and candles? What's the use of them? They just get thrown away afterwards. Stupid."

She giggled at his look of disdain as he stared at the candles around the living room. Personally, she never felt comfortable in such settings either. It always felt too proper and formal. She usually preferred more laid-back dates.

"Sherlock," she said, turning his face to her. "I love you for _you,_ not who John thinks you should be for me."

She saw a look of relief cross his face and smiled. "What would you like to do to spend time with me?"

He gave this some thought. "I don't know, I just like being with you. Your company alone is rather enjoyable."

Molly's heart swelled at his words. God, he could be so sweet when he wanted to be. "How about we order some Chinese and talk? You can tell me about your case. Maybe we can watch telly after."

His face brightened considerably at her words. He did enjoy telling people about his cases. He was also secretly tired (having not slept for the past two days due to his case), and would love to just lounge around his flat. Watching the telly with Molly seemed like a suitable activity.

"A brilliant plan, Doctor Hooper, "he grinned, bending his head to brush his lips against hers.

* * *

Two hours later, both Sherlock and Molly were curled up on the sofa in the dark watching telly.

Or at least, Molly was attempting to.

Sherlock was busy giving her a never-ending commentary.

"What in the world is this? Why is everybody so stupid? Even Anderson would be able to see that Hannibal Lector is the mastermind! And what sort of name is Hannibal? Is it supposed to be some kind of joke regarding his cannibalistic diet? Will Graham needs to have better control over his emotions. He is compromising himself! What an idiot. Such a waste of his intelligence."

Molly sighed and thought that as much as she loved the sound of his deep baritone, she had enough of his ramblings. Before he could utter another word about Hannibal, she pulled him down swiftly and kissed him.

It didn't take long for him to start returning her gesture eagerly. It would seem that Sherlock was actually more affectionate in the dark.

As his tongue ran over her lower lip lightly, Molly decided that this was actually a bloody good first date, all things considered.

She smiled against his lips and pulled him closer, feeling the happiest she'd ever been in a long time.


End file.
